Confessions of the Scandalous Mrs Darcy
by Darcie Rochester
Summary: A somewhat absurd tale of accidentally ripped bodices, gossip columns, eccentric relatives, ill-behaved terriers, and the joys of marrying one's enemy. Elizabeth's POV. Definite HEA.
1. Compromised

**I am going to play with Jane Austen's toys again. I do hope she doesn't mind. Copyright © 2018 Darcie Rochester.**

 **So the premise is basically this: Lizzy is accidentally compromised by Mr. Darcy (or perhaps Mr. Darcy is accidentally compromised by Lizzy . . . no matter) at the Netherfield ball and they are forced to marry.**

 **Has the compromise/forced marriage thing been done before? Most certainly. Has it been done by more accomplished writers, far better than I can do it? Again, most certainly. Has it been done to death and you are all quite sick of reading it and thus will not spare my poor story more than a passing glance? Well, I suppose we shall have to see.**

 **This story is rated M for occasional bawdy jokes, a few instances of mild cursing, several delicately worded penis metaphors, and the strong possibility of sexy times. If any of that offends you perhaps you shouldn't read it.**

 **I swear I really do make an honest attempt to edit, but I have been told my skills in that area leave much to be desired. So if you see a typo or a grammatical error please feel free to tell me in the comments. Doing so will not offend me, in fact I will admire your fastidiousness and thank you for your condescension with obsequious gratitude to rival Mr. Collins. Okay, perhaps not that much gratitude, but I will be grateful.**

 **Also, please note: I plan to publish so the story will only be left up for 10 days after the final chapter has been posted.**

 **Thank you for taking the time to read. Reviews of any kind are most welcome.**

* * *

29th November, 1811

Charlotte and I were ensconced in an inconspicuous corner of the tearoom, each of us taking our refreshment in a manner which befitted our mood. I swilled my tea and chomped my scones with the gusto of a person who thinks she might at any moment be hauled away and locked in some remote madhouse, ever to be fed on runny porridge. Charlotte picked at her biscuit nervously, nary a morsel crossing her lips as if anticipating a bout of frightful dyspepsia later on.

I did not think her anxiety was owed merely to the fact that she was taking tea with Longbourn's very own scarlet woman. No, it would take far more than that to discompose my dear Charlotte. Whatever it was it must be truly dreadful.

I was on the edge of saying, "Out with it—now. I cannot bear the suspense any longer," when the cheerful little bell upon the door rang out. The chime was superfluous. There was no way the tea shop's proprietress could have possibly missed the entry of her newest customers as they were conversing rather loudly.

"I entered the room and there she was, bodice ripped, standing there bold as anything with her bounty hanging out the front of her gown—of course Miss Elizabeth doesn't have much in the way of bounty—but imagine my shock!"

I dared not turn to glance at the speaker. I had chosen my seat which faced away from the door so that I might spare Charlotte the disgrace of being seen with me. I had even gone so far as to borrow Jane's bonnet so if by chance the back of my head took someone's notice they would think Charlotte was having a tete-a-tete with my virtuous, if ruined by association elder sister rather than the ever-so-scandalous me. Thus I could not wreck all my precautions by peeking over my shoulder.

Besides, I knew exactly who the boisterous voice belonged to. I did not have to imagine Mrs. Long's shock at her discovery. Her stunned visage would ever be imprinted on my mind because, while she must think of the incident as the uncovering of the Absolute Best Piece of Gossip Ever to Titillate Meryton Society, for me it was the Absolute Worst Moment of My Life.

Mrs. Long paused her tale long enough to order tea then set off upon it again, speaking even more loudly than before. "It isn't right, it really isn't right, Mrs. Goulding," she trilled. "Here I was searching her out, doing a good turn for her poor mother who was positively frantic by this time, just to have my sensibilities so thoroughly abused."

Mrs. Goulding made encouraging murmurs of sympathy at this juncture.

"And poor Mr. Collins was right beside me. I can only imagine what he must have felt. The man is a clergyman! And it is said he had intended to make her an offer. Well, he certainly will not make her one now! No one will."

"Surely Mr. Darcy—," began Mrs. Goulding.

"Have you not heard? He has left Netherfield. Mr. Bingley's entire party has gone to town. I fear Miss Elizabeth is completely without hope of redemption. I feel very sorry for the Bennets," finished Mrs. Long gleefully.

"Oh yes, as do I. Very sorry indeed. Mr. Darcy is a most abominable gentleman. If the perfidious man had not made indecent designs upon her, I am sure she never would have done anything so shameful."

"Most certainly not. She always was a good girl, if a little spirited. Although I have heard . . . ." Mrs. Long trailed off, letting her words hang like enticingly ripe fruit on a very low branch.

Mrs. Goulding could not help but pluck it. "What have you heard?" she asked hungrily.

"Oh, I should not speak of it. I do not like to gossip."

Though I of course could not actually see Mrs Goulding, I can only assume at that moment she was looking at her friend entreatingly.

After a brief intermission to show proper reluctance, Mrs. Long gave in. "Oh, I might as well tell you, someone else will anyway. It is all over the village. Now, I have heard no proof, mind—this may all be the fancy of gossips—but it is being said that the Netherfield ball might not have been their first dalliance."

"Not their first?"

"Well, she was at Netherfield for four days tending to Miss Bennet was she not?"

"Yes, but I can hardly believe—."

"Nor I, to be sure! It is certainly just a vicious rumor. But it is what is being said and you cannot deny there would have been plenty of opportunity for such goings on."

"Well, yes—"

"And you must admit that though she was a good sort of girl she always was a little too forward."

"Well, yes—."

"And I'm not saying she _intended_ to be a coquette, but I can see how a man might find her manner encouraging of improper attentions."

"Well—."

"And ten thousand a year could turn any girl's head."

"Oh yes, it certainly could."

"And she might have thought she could catch him by allowing liberties."

"No, I shan't believe it."

"But she did allow him liberties! I saw it with my own eyes."

"Yes, but surely it was just the once. Surely it was all Mr. Darcy. Surely poor Miss Elizabeth didn't know what she was about."

"Of all the words that might be used to describe Elizabeth Bennet 'unwitting' isn't one of them."

"Yes, she is a clever girl. And everyone knows how badly the Bennets need at least one of their girls to make an advantageous match."

"I did think it was an uncharacteristically foolish thing for her to do, getting caught like that. And though Mr. Darcy is certainly a horrid, haughty gentleman he did not really seem like a libertine."

"No, indeed. He struck me as rather puritanical actually."

"Perhaps . . . ." Mrs. Long trailed off and this time Mrs. Goulding did not prompt her to continue. She did not need to, for I am sure they were both thinking the same thing. In the course of a five minute conversation I had gone from being the victim of a wicked despoiler of innocence to a mercenary temptress.

"Is that Mrs. Phillips I see?" asked Mrs. Goulding, presumably spotting my aunt from the tearoom's front window.

"I do believe it is. Oh, I would so like to speak with her. She must know what is to be done with Miss Elizabeth now that Mr. Darcy has run off. But I suppose it would be far too ghoulish to ask her."

"It would, however, be appropriate to condole with her about the tragedy that has befallen her nieces."

The words had barely left Mrs. Goulding's lips before I heard the scraping of chairs followed by the cheerful chime of the bell. Cautiously I peeked over my shoulder. Yes, indeed, there they went, chasing my Aunt Phillips down the high street.

"I am pleased to hear my affair with Mr. Darcy was of some duration. It would be a disappointment if all our imagined passion amounted to was a ripped bodice and a ruined reputation. Not to mention it would make me a rather poor seductress if I had been four days in the same house as my intended victim and he had failed to succumb to my feminine wiles. Oh yes, I am certainly glad of all those goings on at Netherfield during Jane's illness."

"Eliza, how can you jest?" Charlotte scolded in reply to my playful remark.

"I am not ignorant of the severity of my situation, however I must make light of it lest I fall apart completely."

Her expression softened. "What happened at the Netherfield ball?"

"Goodness, Miss Lucas, have not you heard? Miss Elizabeth was found _in flagrante delicto_ with Mr. Darcy," I replied, doing what I thought was a quite accurate impersonation of Mrs. Long. Charlotte however did not even grant me a pity chuckle, she just stared at me with an exasperated mien.

"I did something very foolish."

"I had gathered that much," Charlotte observed dryly after it became clear I would speak no more without further persuasion.

She continued to stare at me expectantly. I knew my reluctance must seem strange to her. One would think I would be bursting to tell my side of the story, yet I would have rather listened to Mr. Collins read a monotonous sermon than tell my tale. I did not like to be made to face my mistake. I had always thought myself clever and it was a bit of a disappointment to find after twenty years that I was actually perfectly stupid.

"You know how vexed I was that evening. Mr. Collins would not let me out of his sight—if manacles could have been found the man would have had us fastened together in a trice—and Mama . . . was being Mama, no word of caution from me could check her exuberance.

"I was anxious for the night to be over lest my family expose themselves to any more ridicule than they already had which only vexed me more. It seemed simply absurd to be wishing for the end of a ball I had so looked forward to attending and I thought if I could find a moment alone to settle myself I might be able to enjoy the rest of the evening. So I slipped away from Mr. Collins and went to the library. Unfortunately I found Mr. Darcy there."

I had not realized the room was occupied when I entered it. A lamp was lit, which I thought strange, but it did not prevent me from idly touring the shelves. I did not notice Mr. Darcy until I was upon him. He sat near the hearth, reading by the light of the fire. He was so engrossed in his book he had apparently not heard me wandering about the room. I released a startled gasp and he rose, wearing a look of surprise to echo my own.

He made a slight bow and then said, "I dare not think of how this shall effect your sketch of my character, Miss Elizabeth—finding me here alone when I ought to be enjoying the ball. Though I believe you have already counted my unsociable nature among my most egregious defects so perhaps this discovery will not alter your project at all." He spoke pleasantly, almost teasingly in complete contrast to the stiff manner in which he usually addressed me.

"Unsociability is hardly a defect at all when compared to arrogance, conceit, and jealousy," I said unthinkingly, shocking myself. Had the words been delivered in the arch tone I often employed they would have still been dangerously censorious, but perhaps blunted enough by charm to avoid raising his ire, however I was tired and vexed and my delivery was harsh.

Mr. Darcy flinched and then smiled coldly. "Ah, I see you are ready to present the final portrait. Oddly I suspect the artist's signature is not your own. I had hoped, with further reflection, you would see through Mr. Wickham's superficial charm, but perhaps I gave your intellect greater credit than it was due."

It was my turn to flinch, but I would not allow him to see that his remark had wounded me. "Miss Bingley hinted earlier that you have something to accuse Mr. Wickham of, though she did not know the particulars. I have heard his account of things, perhaps I might hear yours."

"Unlike Mr. Wickham I do not speak of my private concerns to all who will listen."

"Hmmm, yes, I see," I said with much irony.

"Wickham attempted to elope with my sister," Mr. Darcy blurted. He looked alarmed, as if he had not intended to reveal this information—and, indeed, I am certain he had not—but I had baited him and for some reason he had yielded to it.

There was a long silence and then, as if deciding his revelation needed explanation, he continued, "No doubt Mr. Wickham has spoken to you of the living he was to receive upon its becoming vacant?"

I nodded.

"But perhaps he neglected to inform you that after my father's death he announced his intention of never taking orders and instead studying the law. I must admit I was relieved at the alteration of his plans. I knew he should not be a clergyman for I had upon several instances observed a certain viciousness in his nature—a total want of principle.

"He accepted three thousand pounds in lieu of the living and I thought any duty I might have to him thus fulfilled. However, three years later when the living which had been designed upon him became available, he applied to me by letter for the presentation. It seems the study of law had been a mere pretense; he had frittered away his legacy on a life of idleness and dissipation. I declined his request.

"I do not know exactly what lies he has imposed upon you but doubtless his abuse of me to others was as violent as his reproaches to myself. Our acquaintance was severed—I had hoped permanently, but last summer . . . .

"My sister's fortune is thirty thousand pounds. This was no doubt the primary object of Wickham's scheme, though revenging himself upon me was perhaps another incentive. Georgiana was persuaded to believe herself in love with him and consented to an elopement. She was but fifteen at the time which must excuse her imprudence. Had I not joined her unexpectedly just days before the planned elopement—had her guilt at causing me grief not induced her to reveal their plans—I dare not think of the consequences."

Mr. Darcy had begun his speech in his usual controlled manner, but at the finish his rage was obvious. Even if I had thought his righteous anger counterfeit, I could not doubt the truth of his words. All my prior observation of Mr. Darcy had taught me that his sister was of utmost importance to him and he would never invent such a story about her.

Mr. Wickham was a liar. And I was an utter fool.

"Mr. Darcy," I whispered. I know not what I intended to say. I had never been so embarrassed—never so contrite. Perhaps I might have made some attempt at repentance had I been given time to gather my thoughts, but Mr. Darcy was in no mood to hear my apologies.

He moved towards me, ire still radiating from his eyes. He did not halt until he was standing immediately before me, closer than he had been when we had danced. Then he spoke threateningly, condescendingly, "No word of this conversation shall leave this room. If I hear the slightest whisper—"

My anger, as if sparked by the fire in his eyes, flared to life once more. I interrupted him, "I realize you must think me a credulous imbecile, but I am not a silly gossip and I have sense enough not to sully the reputation of an innocent lady."

"I am glad to hear it," he sneered.

I bit my tongue to keep myself from making further incendiary remarks. My anger ebbed and I noticed then how indecently close we were standing. In the heat of the moment I had taken an unconscious step forward, egged on by the menacing manner in which he towered over me. Any attempt to intimidate me is always met with challenge. I would never change this fact about myself, but I will admit it has got me into scrapes, this being the worst of them.

I began to pull away but a slight tug from the front of my gown accompanied by the soft sound of fine muslin rending stilled me. The ornamentation on the bodice of my gown had by some means become entangled with a button on Mr. Darcy's coat. I gasped in horror and Mr. Darcy grabbed my shoulder as if sensing my impulse to jerk away.

"Calm yourself. Be still."

Our garments were still hooked together and any further movement would make the small rip in my gown a great gaping tear. For a while I stood dumbly as he tried to solve our dilemma, it was not until his hand had brushed my bosom twice and his face had gone red up to the tops of his ears that I realized I really ought to be the one handling the situation.

" _I_ will do that," I said, pushing his hands away.

"I suppose I should apologize," I added.

Darcy made no reply, but after a long silent moment I heard him chuckle dryly. I glanced up at him in surprise.

"What is amusing?" I asked, more accusingly than I intended.

"I am wondering when should I expect this apology."

With as much sincerity as I could muster, I looked him in the eyes and said, "I am sorry, Mr. Darcy. I beg your pardon."

He held my gaze, studying me far longer than was comfortable. Then his eyes fell to my lips. Suddenly the inappropriate distance felt inappropriate because it was too great and I had the absurd notion he was about to close it.

And then the door crashed open. We were at the far side of the room with book cases to block the entrants view of us, which gave us a few moments in which we might have freed ourselves, but it was not enough. Despite his warnings of staying calm and remaining still, Darcy leaped away from me rending my gown most thoroughly.

My bounty, as Mrs. Long put it, was no more exposed by the tear in my bodice than it had been before. My chemisette remained perfectly intact, guarding my modesty, but that really did not matter. Mr. Darcy and I had been found alone together in suggestive circumstances and Mrs. Long was willing to make all sorts of suggestions to anyone who would listen.

Mr. Collins was surprisingly tactful. He flushed darkly, muttered something about my modesty, and then quit the room. Mr. Darcy, without a word, followed him. Mrs. Long stayed with me until my mother arrived all the while making shocked exclamations such as: "Oh, Miss Elizabeth—oh, your poor mother—whatever shall be done with you now?"

"What happened with Mr. Darcy?" Charlotte asked, jolting me out of my memories. Her expression was most concerned. I must have been brooding a long while.

Oh, goodness. How could I explain all that had passed between Mr. Darcy and me?

"We argued," I said succinctly.

"What on earth did you argue about?"

"I confronted him about Mr. Wickham's accusations."

"Oh Eliza, you didn't."

"I did. And I made a fool of myself. My trust in Mr. Wickham was misplaced. It seems Mr. Darcy has much to accuse him of."

"Mr. Darcy's evidence must have been most convincing. You were quite charmed by Mr. Wickham."

"Anyone who heard Mr. Darcy's evidence could not doubt it. Mr. Wickham is a dishonorable man."

"You cannot say such intriguing things and then fail to elaborate. What has Mr. Wickham done?"

I shook my head. "Mr. Darcy told me in confidence. His story could harm the reputation of someone he cares about."

Charlotte nodded, smirking knowingly.

"Why are you smiling like that?" I asked irritably.

"Because you are keeping Mr. Darcy's secrets. Because the man who seemingly cares not about what anyone thinks of him was so unable to endure your disapprobation he revealed to you information which could harm someone he loved. I had feared yours was to be a marriage without affection, and knowing how important affection in marriage is to you I feared for your happiness. Yet now I see for all your talk of being determined to hate him and all his remarks about your tolerability there is some inkling of fondness between you."

"There is no fondness between us! He may be vindicated on the subject of Mr. Wickham, but he is still an arrogant, horrible man. And he can have no admiration for me given the fool I made of myself. Besides, it is as Mrs. Long said, he has left Netherfield. There will be no marriage."

"He has not written? There has been no communication between you since the ball?"

I shook my head.

"He will return for you. However little you might think of him, he is a gentleman. A gentleman does not have a dalliance with a lady and then refuse to marry her."

"I have just told you there was no dalliance. Only an argument."

"How did your bodice become ripped?"

"It was an accident."

She raised her brow skeptically.

"His button got caught on my gown."

"Why were you so close to him such a thing could happen?"

She was wearing that smirk again. I could not endure it.

"What did you wish to tell me?"

Her smile fell. "What do you mean?"

"You wanted to meet me for a purpose and not just to condole with me. You have news—what is it?"

Once more she began picking at her food. "Mr. Collins spent the whole of yesterday at Lucas Lodge."

"I know and I am sorry for it. He returned to our house only to cast me a chastising glance and to give my mother a few kind words about our terrible situation before he went up to bed. I have no idea why he has not left our scandalous company. Perhaps he intends to stay until he is certain Mr. Darcy will not make an honorable woman of me. I am sure his esteemed patroness is hungry for any news on that front. I fear until he is satisfied of my utter ruin he will infringe upon your parents' hospitality daily."

Charlotte suddenly looked up from her plate. Drawing a breath as if to steel herself she said, "I'm going to marry him."

"Who?"

"Mr. Collins of course."

"Mr. Collins?"

" _Yes_."

"Please tell me this is some sort of horribly unamusing jest," I said thoughtlessly. I must really learn to watch my tongue.

"I have never been romantic. He has offered me all I have ever hoped for and I have accepted him," she replied severely, her hard gaze daring me to criticize her.

I checked my rising emotions. "If this is what will make you happy, then I am pleased for you," I said evenly.

"You look as though you are about to weep," she observed with some amusement.

"Would you believe they are tears of joy at your happy announcement?"

"How can you be weeping for me? It is your situation that is dire."

"How kind of you to remind me."

"Mr. Darcy will come back."

With forced levity I said, "Oh goodness, I hope not. Then I will have to marry him."

"Yes, Eliza, you will have to marry him," replied Charlotte, smiling sadly.


	2. Wedded

**3rd December, 1811**

In the matter of one week I have moved from the state of utter ruin to triumphant wifehood. Having accomplished that which is supposed to be the ultimate goal of all women, I ought to feel overjoyed. Or at the very least content. Yet I feel nothing of the sort.

It is true there is a certain relief at being done with it all. Mama has been unbearable since Papa received a letter from Mr. Darcy on the 29th of November stating the particulars of the settlements and Darcy's wish that the wedding should occur on Tuesday. Today.

What followed the arrival of the epistle was four days of Mama shifting between lamenting how little time she had to plan the wedding (and abusing Mr. Darcy for his impatience) and exclaiming how wonderful her future son-in-law was, how rich I would be, and how clever she was for having engineered the whole thing (the last was news to me, but if she wished to claim my foolishness I was perfectly willing to give her the credit).

We visited every shop, every neighbor Mama boasting mortifyingly to everyone she met that I was to be the grandest lady in Derbyshire. So, yes, having the wedding over is a relief. Having the marriage started however gives me no pleasure at all. But I am determined to make the best of it. Mr. Darcy, if his silent brooding is any indication, is not.

My husband has spoken exactly thirteen words to me since we were wed five hours ago.

I imagine the first words most husbands speak to their brides directly following the wedding ceremony are declarations of joy or compliments or at the very least, even in situations where there is little affection between the couple, a conversational remark on how surprisingly pleasant the weather is.

Mr. Darcy, it would seem, could not find solace in the miraculous golden day. Instead, as we stood on the steps of the church surrounded by the well-wishings of my family and neighbors, he heaved a great sigh and said in a tone of resigned despair, "Well . . . we are wed."

I suppose I should forgive him for the obviousness of that observation—it does seem rather extraordinary we should find ourselves eternally bound when can barely tolerate each other—but I must say I expected something better from my new husband. His comment displayed an uninspiring lack of creativity. I do hope it is not indicative of his future conversation. It would hardly be fair for him to be condescending _and_ dull.

Worse still, he refused to look at me as he spoke, making it more of a general pronouncement rather than a comment to myself in particular, however I am going to count it else my total will be only nine words and that would be simply intolerable.

At the wedding breakfast, he said "I would like to leave by half one." Eight whole words. An absolutely stunning display of verbosity for Mr. Darcy.

This loquaciousness, however, clearly drained him for once we were in the carriage he pretended to read. I can only believe he was pretending because the roads were so terrible he could not possibly have been focusing on the page whilst being jostled so violently and indeed he kept looking up to glance out the window, making a concerted effort not to let his eyes stray my way in the process.

"I do hope the fair weather holds all the way to London," I said.

Banal words, perhaps, but when one is trying to keep things cheerful I find the weather to be a perfectly safe topic, and _most people_ understand when one person makes an observation about the weather it is then the responsibility of the other to make some little remark of his own so that the pair might at least _pretend_ to have a sensible conversation.

My husband is apparently not at all like most people. He said, "Uh-huh."

Unfortunately for him I am not easily deterred. "We have had terrible winters of late, I do hope this one will be better."

By way of reply he murmured unintelligibly. In retrospect I cannot say I fully blame him. It was hardly a comment bound to inspire much in the way of discussion. What was he supposed to reply?: "I, on the contrary, am hoping for a particularly frigid season. Nothing would please me more than another January in which the Thames freezes solid."

Certainly not a prime example of my conversation skills. Then again, given his dreary moods, perhaps he would enjoy harsh winters.

For my next attempt I decided to try a different tactic. "Your sister is already in town, I believe. I am so looking forward to meeting her," I said hoping a more personal topic of conversation might inspire speech. I was proved correct. Mr. Darcy felt compelled to use actual language in response.

"Indeed," he said. His thirteenth word in our marriage, and I think it my favorite thus far.

It has now been a half hour since any word passed either of our lips. I am coming to realize my efforts are hopeless. This is not simply natural taciturnity, he is being deliberately uncooperative.

Or perhaps it is a very good book. The title is quite illegible from here. Should I ask him what he is reading? He thought it perfectly normal to discuss books in a ballroom so he should have no objection to discussing them in a carriage.

No. I will not. Though I will certainly admit my own folly caused this dreadful situation, he cannot claim innocence either. He might have left the library upon my entering it yet he chose to tarry. He chose to find words to defend himself against my admittedly impertinent accusations and yet he cannot spare a few now.

Clearly he blames me and means for me to feel my guilt, but I will not bend to such petty vindictiveness. I am determined to sit here silently and enjoy the view as the scenery goes by. As it lurches slowly by. As it wobbles slowly by as we make our way down the heavily furrowed road. Perhaps I will not look out the window. I think it is making me nauseated.

I will look at him. And I will smile. Let us see how long he can remain silent under such scrutiny.

* * *

 **Five minutes later**

He just looked up from his book and glared at me. Then he went back to reading. Without a word.

* * *

 **Another five minutes later**

Any moment now. Any moment now he will speak. No one could just sit there with someone smiling at them—smiling a smile that at this point must be quite ghastly and cadaver-like—and not say anything. At the very least he should ask, "Why are you grinning like a madwoman?"

* * *

 **Yet another five minutes later**

He finally looked up. And glared again. Completely uncalled for his glaring at me. While it is very possible my smile looks like something one would see on a caricature from a gallows broadsheet it is still a smile. The appropriate response to a smile is a return smile. Even more appropriate would be some manner of pleasant comment. "Kleist is brilliant. Have you read _Michael Kohlhaas_? I will lend it to you after I am finished."

Is that really so difficult? Just a little comment. It would not have to be a conversation. Heaven forbid.

At the very least he could give me a, "Please stop, you're frightening me," so I would know I had accomplished something in the last quarter of an hour.

I realize I should not expect him to give me anything. He has already rescued my reputation by deigning to marry me. Perhaps that is why I am so annoyed with him. I must be grateful to him.

And I am grateful. Of course I am. But gratitude does not seem a good foundation for a marriage. It would seem the one who had inspired the gratitude must forever suspect any affection on the part of the one whom the aid was bestowed upon, never knowing whether the feelings were inspired by actual admiration or thankfulness.

However, I suppose it cannot matter as Mr. Darcy does not seem interested in inspiring any kind of feeling. To him a wife is just another person to be glared at.

Well, fine. If he is determined to be unpleasant I am done smiling at him. My face hurts anyway.

* * *

 **Once again, Five minutes later**

Perhaps I have been too hasty to judge him. I have misjudged him before, have I not?

I certainly have. To the detriment of us both. I will not do so again. I will give him the benefit of the doubt. It may be that he was not glaring at me at all.

Though it really did _feel_ like an intentional glare. It was a glare that seemed to say, "You inspire a thousand emotions within me—all of them negative."

If he would not point them my direction, I would envy him his bitingly concise expressions. It must be uncommonly useful, especially to one as unsociable as he, to be able to make people flinch away from him with just a look.

Oh! Perhaps I have solved it! He wears his bored/irritated/tired/contemptuous/haughty expression so often to keep from having to talk to strangers he doesn't even realize he is making it anymore.

He has developed a resting bored/irritated/tired/contemptuous/haughty face!

Which makes people think he is above his company, which makes them act coldly towards him, which in turn makes him behave even more disagreeably and it all just goes round in this horrible cycle when really he isn't so terrible at all. He's just shy.

Why a man who has everything to recommend him (excepting an amiable countenance) should be anything but self-assured I could not say. But I suppose it is not for me to judge. I do far too much judging.

I suddenly feel much lighter. I haven't married a disagreeable man at all. He is really a kindhearted, wonderful man who is simply hiding all his good qualities so he does not have to talk to people.

I am also feeling a little proud of myself for considering his character so rationally, so removed from my own assumptions. Marriage agrees with me. From here on out I will be more rational and less apt to jump to conclusions. I will be gentler with Mr. Darcy, more patient, more understanding, more—

"I do not wish to converse at this time. I do not understand why that should be such a great imposition to everyone or why I should forever be defending my lack of inclination, but here it is: I do not wish to converse."

"I'm sorry?" I asked, bewildered by his sudden declaration.

"I know you are punishing me for my lack of conversation with your humming. Tuneless humming. What I must assume is _intentionally_ tuneless humming as I have heard your singing and know you are perfectly capable of carrying a tune if you wish."

Oh, goodness. I had really thought I had cured myself of that bad habit.

"I wasn't humming." It is always worthwhile to try denial first, just in case it works.

"You most certainly were."

"I was not humming intentionally, tunelessly or otherwise. Sometimes when I am thinking deeply I hum. I don't even realize I'm doing it."

"Wonderful."

He put so much disdain into that one word every promise I just made to myself about being kind and patient and understanding flew straight out of my head.

"Oh, yes, I am sure you are completely without any bad habits. It must be lovely to be utterly perfect and thus able to look down on the rest of us mere mortals."

He rolled his eyes—yes, he actually rolled his eyes—and then looked out the window wearing his bored/irritated/tired/contemptuous/haughty face. "Do you plan to once again enumerate all my failings. I would think by now you've done that thoroughly, but perhaps you have new grievances?"

Perhaps I did.

I had endeavored not to say anything because it had all turned out . . . well, not right but settled. It had all been settled and the past wasn't worth dwelling on and of course I had to be so, so, so, so bloody grateful he had condescended to come back at all but—

"Why did you abandon me?"

His expression shifted to a look of bemusement.

"At the Netherfield ball. You left without telling me your plans. Without a word."

"I sent your father a missive once everything was arranged," he replied calmly. There was not even a hint of defensiveness in his tone, just a statement of fact. His words were a verbal shrug.

"Yes," I spoke patiently, but it was the sort of patience one might employ when speaking to a small child one suspects to be slow witted, "but that was two full days after the ball. Did you not think of how I would feel during that time, not knowing what you intended to do?"

"How could you wonder at my intentions? What else was there to do? I went to see my solicitor to draw up the settlement then I applied for a license. I do not think either of those tasks could have been completed with more celerity"

"I am not challenging the rapidity of your performance, I am expressing dissatisfaction at your lack of communication. You left me to face the consequences alone. I thought myself—and my sisters along with me—completely ruined."

A flicker of remorse crossed his features, but then his usual cold severity came rushing back. "I returned. What more do you wish of me?"

"Nothing. I wish absolutely nothing of you," I replied. I was right from the first, he is an unfeeling, haughty, horrible man.


	3. And Bedded?

**3rd December, 1811**

 **Evening**

As soon as the maid who had been helping me out of my dinner dress had taken her leave, I collapsed upon my bed. Or rather I collapsed upon the bed in the chamber I had been directed to upon arriving at Darcy House.

It did not feel like my bed. I did not believe anything in this house would ever feel like mine. Nevertheless it was, at least in name, my bed. In my bedchamber. My bedchamber which had three doors. One door led to my private sitting room. One door led to my dressing room. And one door led to my husband's bedchamber.

One of these doors was causing me greater anxiety than the other two. Care to guess which one?

Surely Mr. I-Do-Not-Wish-To-Converse could possibly expect—could not possibly want—would not possibly think—arrgh, I could not even put it to words—it was too horrible. He just could not possibly. There could be no wedding night after such a wedding day.

Things had not improved after our argument in the carriage. He kept to his book and his cold silences and—though I did entertain some rather childish thoughts of intentionally humming tunelessly—I restrained myself, keeping quietly civil.

He did not speak again until we reached Mayfair. At which point he said suddenly into the silence, "In addition to my sister, my aunt and her two young daughters are staying at Darcy House. You will most likely meet them this evening." I read the unspoken command in his eyes, "And I expect you to behave with decorum," they seemed to say.

"How lovely," I said though I did not feel the slightest bit of pleasure at this revelation. Though I am usually keen to meet new people, the idea of having another Darcy relation to look upon me with disapproval was not appealing.

"Mrs. Vane is my father's half sister. She stays on at my London house most of the year with occasional visits to other relation. It is her primary residence."

"She is a widow?"

"Possibly." Only Mr. Darcy could make such an enigmatic statement and think he could leave it unexplained.

"Possibly?" I prompted.

"Her husband has . . . mislaid himself. Before his disappearance he had habits of excess which have led to financial constraints for my aunt. Without assistance she and my cousins would be living in circumstances unsuitable to ladies of their rank."

Notice Mr. Darcy did not say, "My uncle is a gamester who has put his wife and daughters in penury." No, he had to say it much more delicately than that. And of course call Mr. Vane "her husband" rather than "my uncle". He would never lower himself by admitting connection to such a man. It is a wonder he did not introduce me to the housekeeper and butler of Darcy House as "the woman I happen to be married to" rather than "my wife, Mrs. Darcy".

Yet he did indeed introduce me as his wife when we arrived. To the servants at least. To his aunt and sister he simply said, "This is Elizabeth," accompanying the announcement with a sort of vague gesture towards me just in case they were yet unsure to whom he was referring.

Perhaps his indication was necessary. They both had looked stunned as if they had been expecting someone else entirely. In Mrs. Vane's case, I think she expected a temptress, a beguiling coquette whose undeniable beauty would explain her nephew's predicament. Instead she was confronted with the merely tolerable me and did not know what to make of anything.

Miss Darcy expected me to have horns. Possibly hooves as well. And certainly a forked tail.

Miss Darcy hated me. I could see it in her eyes immediately. It was a true, pure outright hatred. A hatred whose intensity I suspected was in direct correlation to her love for her brother.

I could respect that kind of hatred. If some gentleman by some means evil or accidental had trapped Jane into a marriage she did not want I am sure I would feel quite the same way about him as Miss Darcy felt about me. Even If I had been the daughter of a duke with fifty thousand pounds to my name, Miss Darcy would still hate me.

Mrs. Vane I believed, however, would have been much more accepting of me if my circumstances were thus altered. One could tell straightaway upon meeting her that she once carried the name Darcy and not simply because she, like her nephew, had strong, aristocratic features. No, it was because she had that same pride as Mr. Darcy, a seemingly inborn assurance that everybody and everything is beneath them until proven otherwise.

And I had certainly not been proven otherwise.

Dinner was a frightful affair. Four courses _service a la russe_ (who bothers with _service a la russe_ for a family dinner?) of Miss Darcy's silent hatred, Mrs. Vane's haughty disdain, and Mr. Darcy's . . . resentment? Travel fatigue? Dyspepsia? Or perhaps he still simply did not wish to converse. Who could guess?

I had thought once he was in the company of his relatives he would at least speak to them, yet he answered most of their inquiries with monosyllabic replies. It was most frustrating. I knew him to be capable of conversation, I had witnessed it—I had participated in it!

The wedding was barely mentioned, but of course if either lady had cared to know about the wedding they might have attended—Meryton is an easy distance from London, after all. Most of the conversation—or rather interrogation—centered on my family.

Mrs. Vane was only too happy to point out the deficiency of my relation and connections though she did it with such careful false civility I could not possibly make any sort of rejoinder without looking the villain. But, oh, how I longed to inquire about Mr. Vane.

Yet I behaved myself.

After dinner, coffee was served in the drawing room where Miss Darcy played a selection on the pianoforte. Miss Bingley did not exaggerate in her praise, Miss Darcy is astoundingly talented. At the conclusion of her performance Mr. Darcy announced there was some business he must attend to and went out, Miss Darcy declared herself fatigued and went off to bed, and Mrs. Vane said she must go to the nursery to bid her daughters goodnight. Thus I was left blessedly alone.

So now I find myself in bed at an hour that is absurdly early for London but I am still on country time so I should be tired. And I am tired though of course I will not sleep. Because, as I mentioned earlier—The Door.

I do not hear stirring in the adjoining chamber so I must conclude that Mr. Darcy has not yet returned from whatever business sent him out. It is too much to hope that he will stay out all night.

It is going to happen and I must resign myself to it. Really, I'll be glad to have it done with.

Only it is never actually done with, is it? Nocturnal visits from a husband might cease after the production of a son or two, but until then they are something which must be endured with fair regularity.

Perhaps I will feel better about it once I know which type Mr. Darcy is. Mama says there are two types of men (I understand the dangers of putting much faith in anything Mama says but hers is the only information I have).

According to her the types of men are:

1\. The squeamish sort. This gentleman is just as bashful as his bride and perhaps more than a little too proper. Activities will be conducted in complete darkness. He will push up his bride's night gown only as much as necessary and then shove in his bayonet without preface (bayonet is Mama's word choice not mine). The whole mortifying process will be over in a matter of minutes, but every second of it will be martyrdom.

2\. The experienced and unabashed lover. This gentleman knows what he is about either through direct practice (the most likely scenario) or through the rigorous study of available literature (I was surprised to find there are books on the subject and voiced my desire to read one—a book would be much more instructive than my mother, I'm sure—but Mama refused to speak any more about it and I wonder if the scholarly approach is just a bit of mythology invented by mothers to mitigate their daughters' shock at finding their new husbands too knowledgeable).

Regardless of the origin of his knowledge, this sort of gentleman will probably wish to see his bride disrobe and, as shocking as that experience will be, according to Mama it will certainly be worth it. There will be all manner of preface and the entire process (even the bayoneting part) will be pleasant.

Mama went onto explain how exactly Mr. Darcy will plow my fertile valley (once again, her word choice, not mine). A process which I think is perfectly obvious to anyone who has lived around livestock as long as I have.

What I really wanted to know more about was preface. Specifically what it is and how one goes about it as I am fairly certain livestock do not engage in it and from what she told me it is what makes all the difference.

In true Mama fashion she absolutely refused to discuss it further, saying only, "Mr. Darcy will know what to do. Or he won't."

How comforting!

Though I would not call Mr. Darcy squeamish, I would say he is indifferent to my feelings. If he finds engaging in polite conversation too much a chore, is he likely to waste his time on preface?

I fear not.

Mama also seemed convinced he was the first type of gentleman. With a pitying glance and an affectionate pat upon the hand she said, "It might be best to have a glass of wine or two before he visits you. And once he arrives just be a good girl and lie still and think of all the lovely things you can buy with your pin money."

Perhaps I should call for a glass of wine? I had one with dinner but its affects have all but worn off. Another might serve to settle my nerves. Settle my nerves? Goodness, I am turning into Mama.

As over-dramatic as she may be, on occasion she does have the right of things and I think this may be one of those times. A glass of wine would be helpful, yet I really did not want to ring the bell and trouble the servants for such a trifling thing, especially on my first night here. I decided to go to the kitchen and fetch it myself.

It was not until I was on the second landing that it occurred to me the servants were probably still very much awake and going about their duties and my appearance in the kitchen—in my night rail and dressing gown, no less—would disturb them.

I was about to turn around and trudge back up the stairs when I noticed the first door down the hall was slightly ajar. The door of Mr. Darcy's study. A gentleman keeps his private supply of liquor in his study, correct?

I crossed the hall and peeked through the crack in the door. Seeing no occupants in the room, I cautiously eased open the door, driven more by curiosity than by any desire to pilfer my husband's alcohol.

The study was immaculate. Which did not surprise me exactly. One would expect any room designed for the primary use of Mr. Darcy to be tidy. But it was just so terribly . . . bare.

There was nothing personal at all. No paintings. No ornamentation beyond the small clock upon the mantel, and even it was rather plain. At the center of the room there was an imposing desk and behind it a chair that did not look at all comfortable. By the fireplace there were two more chairs, these were at least upholstered and slightly more promising of comfort. Between the chairs there was a little table on which sat a decanter filled with an amber liquid of some sort and beside it was a tumbler.

And that was everything. In the whole room. A room that could not exactly be called small. And everything was all so very ivory. And gold. But mostly ivory. Men usually preferred sumptuous shades like red for their rooms as it is less likely to be discolored by cigar smoke. There was no discoloration on those walls. Nor did the room have that masculine smell of lingering tobacco. Mr. Darcy, I concluded, did not smoke.

But he did drink.

My gaze returned to the decanter. The liquid within it glowed warmly in the candlelight. I should have a drink, I thought. That was what I came for, wasn't it?

It wasn't. I had hoped to discover something about my husband. Something personal. Some little secret that might make him seem more human. And all I had managed to glean was that he did not smoke.

I sighed, resigned to return to my chambers lacking in both wine and information, but then I heard footsteps on the stairs. It was probably just a servant come to snuff out the candles but I did not wish to be caught snooping. Impulsively I grabbed the decanter and tumbler and quit the room in all haste.

Some minutes later in the safety of my chamber, I stared at the decanter which now sat on my dressing table, taunting me for my rashness. You've already stolen me, it whispered, you might as well work up the courage to have a drink.

Proper ladies did not drink liquor. Wine was acceptable, in moderation. But liquor was out of the question. Then again, proper ladies did not find themselves married to gentlemen they barely knew because they had been caught with their bodices ripped. I reached for the decanter, pulled the stopper, and sniffed.

As expected the sharp scent of strong alcohol assailed my nose. I had tasted liquor once before when I was twelve and had sneaked a sip of Papa's Scotch whisky, only sheer determination had got me past the acrid smell. But this time there was something else beyond the harsh odor, something fruity.

I had stolen brandy. Well, brandy wasn't so bad. It was just distilled wine. People pressed it upon ladies who had swooned. It could not be too strong, could it?

I poured a little into the tumbler and took a tentative sip. There was a slight burn, a pleasant warmth, really. I drained the glass. How much did one need to drink in lieu of proper preface? Certainly more than I had just partaken in. I filled the tumbler again, this time filling it to what was in my estimation the equivalent of a glass of wine. I sipped. Ah, yes this should do nicely.

* * *

 **Twenty minutes later**

I absolutely loved brandy. It must be the absolute best thing ever to have been made in the history of great things that have been made since the beginning of absolute ever.

The first proper glass had succeeded in making me feel wonderfully tingly so I thought a second glass might make me forget all about my terror at going to bed with my husband and I was correct, I no longer felt frightened at all. I felt rather excited about it, really. Who knew? It might be pleasant. Darcy might be a lover.

Oh, goodness. I began to laugh uncontrollably. It was such an amusing thought. Mr. Darcy a lover. Everything was so, so amusing. _Must stop laughing or husband will think I'm a madwoman_ , I chided myself. I could hear Mr. Darcy moving about his chambers. He had arrived home some time ago. I thought he would have come to visit me by now.

I never realized how long men take at their toilette. What could they possibly have to do? I suppose there is the shaving. Do men shave in the evening? I do not know. There are so many things I do not know about men.

Through the wall Mr. Darcy's deep, serious voice rumbled indescribably. He was dismissing his valet, I think. He would come to me shortly.

I glanced at the noticeably diminished decanter. Perhaps another little sippy was in order?

* * *

 **Five minutes later**

"Mr. Darcy! What very fine ankles you have," I said when I noticed the figure of my husband towering above me. I had been sitting at my dressing table in somewhat of a stupor and suddenly he appeared. Had he knocked upon the adjoining door? I had not heard him knock. Naughty boy!

He was clad in a dressing gown and . . . well, probably just a dressing gown but it concealed his modesty well. All I could really see were his ankles. And a bit of his calves. Most exemplary calves they were, I'm sure. I cannot say I know much about the ideal male physique, but his calves looked to me to be perfectly proportioned.

I stood, and the moment I did so London experienced a violent earthquake. The house, the furniture, and Mr. Darcy were all fortunately immune to the seismic forces.

I reached out and grasped the nearest stable object in order to steady myself. "Good shoulders, too. Quite solid," I said.

Horrifyingly I did not immediately release his person. I just stood there holding on to his shoulder as if I had every right to do so, all the while a part of my mind that seemed to no longer be connected to the rest of me screamed shrilly. And then fainted dead away. The sensible part of my mind had swooned. The sensible part of my mind needed more brandy.

"You are inebriated," observed Mr. Darcy.

"Noooooooooo!"

Realizing this response did not speak of sobriety, I tried again, "No, I just had one little glass." This statement would have been more convincing if it had not come out as "I jus 'ad one lil glash."

"Indeed."

"Perhaps two," I amended, holding up my fingers to illustrate.

"Two?" he asked, holding up three fingers. I thought he was teasing me until I looked at my own hand and found I was holding up three fingers as well.

"Yes, two."

"Or maybe, three?" he asked while holding up five fingers.

"Noooo!"

His lips tugged at the corners as if he were trying to suppress it, but then he relaxed and allowed them to form a smile.

"You're smiling," I said, beaming back at him—hand still firmly on his shoulder, I might add. "You really do have a lovely smile. Your real smile, that is, not your superior smile or your you-have-wounded-but-I-will-not-show-it smile. Your real smiles are quite . . . breathtaking."

At some time during my babbling I decided I had leave to stroke his cheek and commenced doing so, relishing its smoothness (he had been shaved, apparently). Mr. Darcy for his part did not seem to mind, or at least he did not mind enough to move away.

"You're so handsome. And rich. Pity about the rest of it."

His smile shifted.

"Oh, no. I've wounded you. I am a bad, bad, bad, bad Lizzy. You must learn when I am only teasing. This marriage thing will never work if you don't learn that. I will tease you. And you may tease me back. Go on, try it. Tease me, Mr. Darcy."

Lines appeared on his forehead and his lips twitched. Some part of him wanted to tease me, but he was experiencing a great internal struggle. Seriousness against joviality. Predictably, seriousness won out; he kept his silence.

"Right. You did not come to converse you came to consummate."

I could feel the blood rush to his cheeks beneath my fingers (yes, now I had both hands on his face). "Goodness, your face is warm. Have I made you blush or are you taking ill?"

True to form as ever, Mr. Darcy made no reply. He just stared at me in that intense way of his, as if he were trying to divine all of my secrets without having to give away any of his own.

Suddenly kissing him seemed like a very good idea. I was not sure what constituted preface, but I felt kissing must be part of it. Standing up upon the tips of my toes, I pulled his lips down to meet mine. He tensed, then pushed me away—gently—but it was still a push. A rejection. Now my cheeks flamed.

"Elizabeth—."

But I would never find out what he had intended to say because my stomach chose that moment to twist painfully. I raced behind my dressing screen and retched into the chamber pot hidden there. Much to my mortification, Mr. Darcy followed me. He knelt beside me, stroking my back comfortingly as I finished casting up my accounts.

"Oh God, what you must think of me," I said, still leaning over the chamber pot. There could be nothing else in my stomach to heave, but I did not wish to rise. I did not wish to face him.

Mr. Darcy made no comment, instead he assisted me to my feet. Once we were both standing he gingerly dabbed my chin with a handkerchief (where in heavens had the man stowed a handkerchief?) whilst I made my embarrassment complete by bursting into tears.

"I've made a fool of myself again," I cried, "Now you will think I am one of those pathetic females who is always having vapors and sniveling."

Without reply, he led me from the dressing room to the bedchamber. He pulled back the counterpane and nudged me into bed. When I was situated to his satisfaction he turned and left, exiting by way of the adjoining door.

His abrupt departure was so well aligned with my understanding of him I was surprised when he returned carrying a glass of water.

"Drink," he commanded.

I took a sip.

"All of it."

Grateful as I was to him for . . . well, everything, my gratitude did not prevent me from casting a glare at him for his overbearing tone. I did, however, continue to drink as my throat was rather raw and the water soothing.

"Goodnight, Elizabeth," he said when I handed him back the empty glass.

"Goodnight," I whispered. I knew I should say more. I should at least thank him, but I was barely holding back tears and I did not want to risk bawling in front of him again.

He stepped away as if to leave, but then halted.

"It is not easy for me," he said.

"Polite conversation," he explained, anticipating my question. "If all participants keep to the expected script I can manage, but the practice itself seems absurd to me. I find social interaction in general to be exhausting and sometimes, after I have been forced to attend to a great many trivial conversations with a great many people not well known to me . . . ." he trailed off as if he did not know how to further explain.

"You do not wish to converse," I provided.

He nodded and then he turned to leave.

"Darcy!"

Pausing at the door, he glanced back at me.

"Thank you," I said. I was thanking him for explaining his taciturnity, for putting me to bed—I could only hope he understood for I had not the words to express it all at that moment.

He smiled. A tight half-smile, not quite a true smile, but a smile all the same. Then he stepped through the adjoining entryway and closed the door.


	4. The Importance of Pudding

**4th December, 1811**

 **Morning**

I have lost my husband.

Presumably he will return, though if after last night he has decided to mislay himself I could hardly blame him. The thought of having such a wife could drive anyone to desertion. He left before taking his breakfast and without taking any traveling trunks or baggage of any kind (and yes, I did interview his valet concerning this subject) so I can assume he will return before the day is over as he does not seem the type to go above a day without a clean change of clothes.

I wanted to apologize for my abominable behavior last night (the attempted kiss—the vomiting, oh I still cringe to think of it) but it seems my apology will have to wait. I do hope he returns soon. I am determined to show him how proper I can truly be.

I have lost my sister-in-law as well, but I am not so terribly worried about that.

Mrs. Vane, however, is accounted for. The housekeeper, desperate to give me the location of at least one of my new relations, informed me Mrs. Vane was in her private sitting room (though I had not asked) and if I wanted to speak with her (I didn't) she would go at once and ask if she were willing to allow me the joy of her company (the housekeeper looked as unenthusiastic at the prospect of rousing Mrs. Vane as I felt at the prospect of having a tete-a-tete with her).

I have a dreadful headache which is making me doubt my ability to be civil to the uncivil this morning and thus any interaction with Mrs. Vane seems likely to lead to disaster. I have elected instead to meet with the housekeeper after breakfast and discuss the running of the household. That seems like the sort of thing a new mistress would do and at the very least it will make me seem useful.

* * *

 **Afternoon**

The household proved to be run as efficiently as I expected it would be. Though I was sorely tempted to request that dinners be less formal, I did not wish to alter anything against Mr. Darcy's wishes. He has still not returned. Nor has Miss Darcy and I was beginning to worry about her absence but then the housekeeper assured me my sister-in-law was in the company of Mrs. Annesley. I have not the slightest idea who Mrs. Annesley is but the housekeeper seemed confident in her suitability as Miss Darcy's chaperon and so I nodded along rather than admit my ignorance.

Finding myself at leisure, I went to the library. I spent a good while luxuriating in the vastness of the collection, strolling along aimlessly among the shelves. If I understand correctly there is an even larger selection at Pemberley. For the first time I felt a stirring of excitement at the idea of being Mrs. Darcy. Can one learn to love one's husband for the enormity of his library?

I chose a tome and settled into the chair nearest to the fireplace. I had not read the first sentence before a high voice rang out, loud and surprisingly near, "Are you _her_?"

There was a blonde moppet behind me.

"Of course she's _her_ , you ninny, who else would she be?"

There were two blonde moppets behind me, a second had appeared as if by magic beside the first as if she had popped up from the floor. I took a moment to carefully inspect the floor for trapdoors. Does the overindulgence of alcohol cause delusions as well as headaches?

The second moppet, upon closer scrutiny proved not a moppet at all, but rather that most fearsome of things, a girl on the cusp of becoming a young woman. She was also not exactly blonde as her hair was several shades darker than that of her younger companion.

It is a common tale. One begins life with locks the color of captured sunlight, spends a good portion of one's childhood thinking, "I may be too bold and too hoydenish, but at least I have pretty hair," and then right at the last, before it can be of any use, one's hair commits the ultimate betrayal and becomes a rather unremarkable shade of brown. I may or may not have direct experience with such disappointments.

Exact shade of their hair notwithstanding, there were two children staring at me.

"You must be Miss Henrietta and Miss Belinda Vane. It is so lovely to meet you. I'm Elizabeth Bennet."

I realized my mistake as soon as the matching quizzical expressions settled on their darling little faces.

"That is to say, I am Elizabeth D—I am Mrs. Dar—I am your cousin's new wife." I could not say it. Somehow the words, "I am Elizabeth Darcy," were just too much.

Now they were looking at me as though I were a simpleton. Much better.

"Are you going to throw us out of the house?" This came from the younger one whom I assumed from what I had gleaned from my conversation with their mother the previous evening was Belinda.

"Bel!" Henrietta shouted confirming my suspicions.

"What? You wanted to find out."

"Yes, but I didn't plan to baldly ask her. Now she'll think we're ill-mannered and she'll definitely throw us out of the house."

"I have no intention of throwing anyone out of the house," I said in a tone I hoped was amply reassuring.

"Are you sure? Because Mother seemed certain you would. She said you are a calculating hussy and you wouldn't want us under foot."

"Really, Belinda, we might as well go have Sunders pack our things now if you are going to insult our hostess."

"How did I insult her?"

"You just called her a calculating hussy!"

"No, I didn't. Mother did. And how was I to know calculating hussy was an insult anyway?"

"I would say by using your common sense, but I know you haven't one jot of that."

"I just thought calculating meant she was good at sums and hussy . . . well, I don't really know what that means but it doesn't _sound_ like an insult. What does it mean?"

"I'm not going to tell you!"

"You don't really know what it means, do you? You're just trying to sound superior, aren't you? You're always doing that."

"I know what it means, but now is not the appropriate time to define it," Henrietta whispered through her teeth. In a motion I suppose was meant to be subtle, she jerked her head towards me, proving she at least remembered I was here.

"Why? Do you think she doesn't know what it means either?"

"Of course she knows what it means. Everyone who isn't an idiot knows what it means."

"Don't call me an idiot! Mother said you were not to call me an idiot anymore!"

"I didn't call you an idiot. Not specifically."

In reply Belinda pressed her lips into a pout and blew out with all her might, making an offensive sound.

"Oh, how very clever. What a lovely first impression," Henrietta scolded, turning her attention to me she said, "Whatever you might think of her, I assure you that I'm not a heathen. Perhaps you will find it in your heart to keep me at least."

"Cousin Will likes us. He won't send us away. It doesn't matter what she says anyway. And even if she could send us away, I wouldn't mind. I want to go home."

With the false patience of someone who has explained something at least a thousand times, Henrietta said, "There is no home to go to. Father sold Clare Hall to the Tafts."

"I _hate_ Father and I _hate_ the Tafts and I _hate_ town. It is so dull here."

"You will be going to Pemberley in the summer I expect. Summer is not so very far away." As soon as I had spoken I realized it was a stupid thing to say. Seven months is practically an eternity to a child.

Belinda looked at me exasperatedly and then rolled her eyes. I had yet to see any family resemblance between the child and my husband, but there it was; she rolls her eyes just like Mr. Darcy.

Sullenly Belinda said,"We won't be going to Pemberley."

"Mother likes town. She doesn't want to go to Derbyshire where there is nothing to do," Henrietta explained.

"Mother doesn't do anything here. She just doesn't want to go to Pemberley because then all those people who knew her when she was young would find out about Father's scandal. People talk about her here, but if the vicar and the housekeeper and her old nurse—think about how much Mother talks about Nanny Higgins! She couldn't bear it if _those_ people knew what Father had done," said Belinda with the authority of someone much older. The look on Henrietta's face told me her younger sister's sudden display of perspicacity was not normal.

Belinda continued to speak with growing despair, "So she is going to hide in London like a coward and we are going to hide away with her until we are old enough to marry. As soon as I make my come out I am going to marry a Scotsman so I never have to go to town again."

"How would marrying a Scot keep you from coming to town?" asked Henrietta.

"He will take me into the wilds and we will never come out again. They don't have cities in Scotland."

"Really? What about Edinburgh, Inverness—"

"I mean horrid gigantic endless cities like London."

Henrietta heedlessly continued, "Aberdeen, Glasgow, Dundee—"

"I will only marry a man who refuses to step foot in London."

"How are you going to meet him if he never comes to town?"

Apparently out of witty replies, Belinda once again resorted to making a rude sound.

"Don't judge me by her, I'm very civilized," said Henrietta.

She stepped closer as to better observe the book I held, then said, "I see you are reading _A Sicilian Romance_. It's my favorite. I've read all of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels."

"She's always reading. She knows all sorts of obnoxiously large words and is forever throwing them about to make herself seem clever."

"I _am_ clever. Cousin Will said so."

"Oh yes, if your darling Will said it it must be true." To me she said, "She wanted to marry him. But you got there first."

"I did not want to marry him," said Henrietta, face darkening very quickly to an alarming shade of red.

"Did too. You couldn't stop crying when you found out he was getting married. I heard you say he had been caught by an upstart tart and I'm not sure what you meant by that, but I don't think you were talking about a pastry."

"Bel!"

"How did you catch him anyway?"

"Bel!" Henrietta repeated, this time with less anger and more resigned mortification.

"You want to know just as much as I do!"

"I already know. Obviously she compromised him."

"Can a gentleman be compromised?" challenged Belinda.

"Obviously a gentleman can be, seeing as Will was."

"Perhaps _he_ compromised _her_."

"Please, Belinda, do be serious."

"Well, if she compromised him, how did she do it?"

"With her wiles, of course."

"What are wiles?"

Henrietta hesitated.

"You don't know, do you?"

"I do."

"You don't know. You are pretending to know again. You always do that."

"Our marriage was brought about by a disastrous misunderstanding. Quite accidental. No wiles involved. I'm not even certain I have wiles."

Henrietta looked me over appraisingly. "Probably not," was her final verdict.

There must have been some appearance of insult on my part for Belinda said,"Don't listen to her, she's just jealous. I'm sure you have lots of wiles. You seem very . . . wily."

"What are you doing?" asked Henrietta.

"I am trying to endear myself to her so she does not throw me out," Belinda replied in a cautious whisper. They were back to talking about me like I was a wild animal, too stupid to comprehend their meaning, but perhaps capable of taking offense at their tone.

"Only a moment ago you said you didn't care if she threw us out."

"Yes, but I've just thought of pudding. We have all the best things for pudding here. Pudding at home was rubbish. Sometimes we didn't even have anything. You won't take away dessert will you? You aren't one of those awful people who think children shouldn't have sweets?"

"Indeed I am not. I could never abide such people. The dessert course shall stay just as it is."

"Good." With that declaration Belinda dropped to the floor and sat near my feet. She looked up at me with her big, dark eyes—eyes, which I noted were the exact color of Mrs. Vane's, the exact color or Mr. Darcy's—and cast the full weight of her adorableness my way.

"You will go to parties, I hope," she said. "Mother used to go to parties and tell us all about them. Georgie is still too young to go to parties. She might have come out this season—some ladies do at sixteen, _I_ most certainly will—but I think Will wants her to wait another year. I don't understand why, but I think she did something naughty.

"But you can go to parties and tell us about them. You might even have a party here and we could watch from the hall. It is too bad this isn't a castle with a laird's lug, then I could hide there and hear all the gossip. It would be so exciting."

"Bel, you really are too ridiculous."

"Henri, you really are too insufferable."

"Mother told you not to call me Henri anymore. It lacks refinement. And it's a boy's name."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Henri. It just slipped out."

"You are such a child."

"Henri, Henri, Henri."

" **Do be quiet,** " said Henrietta imperiously.

Belinda surged to her feet all thoughts of being endearing forgotten. " **Make me**."

I have sisters enough to know where such a statement leads.

"You might both call me Lizzy since we are all going to be great friends. Are we not?"

They both straightened. Henrietta's expression said I was still under review. Belinda's said, "I'm just here for pudding."

Henrietta apparently decided it was best to keep the doors of friendship open. "I call her Bel when I'm not calling her Pest. And you may call me Etta."

"Henri," whispered Belinda.

I was saved from having to halt a brawl by the sudden opening of the library doors. A feminine voice called out the sisters' names. They groaned in response.

A slight, black clad figure appeared from around a bookcase, looking fretful. The governess, no doubt. "There you are—oh, Mrs. Darcy! You must forgive the intrusion—these ladies are shirking their lessons. Come girls, time for French."

More groaning.

"So sorry they bothered you, ma'am," said the harried governess.

"They were no bother at all."

The girls raced off, presumably to the schoolroom though it was equally possible they were off to hide somewhere else.

"Come back," called the governess with great authority for such a tiny little thing.

"Take your leave of Mrs. Darcy properly," she commanded when they returned.

Begrudgingly they made their little curtsies. "It was so lovely to meet you, Cousin Will's new wife," added Henrietta with a smirk, clearly recalling my difficulties at introducing myself as Mrs. Darcy. They skipped away again. The governess let out a beleaguered sigh, dropped a curtsy of her own, then followed them off.

I settled back into my chair and opened my book. I had read _A Sicilian Romance_ before but it was worth rereading, especially if it was Henrietta's favorite. It would be nice to have someone to converse with even if she was only all of twelve years old, still suspicious of me, and possibly in love with my husband.

Oh, how my head ached! I closed the book once more. The words were wriggling about on the page.

I was glad to have met Henrietta and Belinda, however I was also glad I had no further social demands for the rest of the day. Almost as soon as this thought had crossed my mind the butler appeared beside me. I examined the floor again. There really must be a trapdoor. It was the only explanation.

"Mr. and Mrs. James Darcy to see you, ma'am."

"Oh, of course," I said. I have no idea why I said, "Of course," as if I had been expecting Mr. and Mrs. James Darcy for ages. But I suppose an insouciant "Oh, of course" was much more appropriate than, "Who are they? Never mind, it doesn't matter. They can bloody well shove off regardless," which was on the tip of my tongue.

"Please show them to the drawing room. I will be along presently."


	5. Eccentric Relations Part One

**4th December 1811**

 **Afternoon**

I was attacked the moment I entered the drawing room. My assailant came from the edge of my vision a whirl of blazing hair and fine lace. She had me around the neck and was clinging most determinedly before I had time to react.

"Oh Elizabeth," my attacker excitedly exclaimed very loudly and very close to to my ear, "I have been longing to meet you ever since I heard of your marriage to Fitzwilliam."

Ah. So this was an embrace. Not an assassination.

"Let her go, darling. She doesn't know who you are," said a male voice. The man spoke softly, yet commandingly with a hint of dry amusement.

The lady reluctantly released me allowing me better view of the speaker. Standing in the center of the room was a fine figure of a man—very tall, very imposing, very—

"Darcy," I said in an unthinking whisper.

Of course the man must be _a_ Darcy. He could be none other than Mr. James Darcy as there were no other gentleman I could see in the room. But when I had spoken I had meant _the_ Darcy. _My_ Darcy.

Which was a rather silly mistake to have made because the man was so old. Not truly old. Not keep-the-windows-closed-he-may-crumble-into-dust-and-blow-away old. Just old-enough-to-be-my-father old. Though he looked well preserved, he was graying and certainly in his fifth decade, perhaps beyond.

And certainly not my Mr. Darcy.

My hope that no one had heard my foolish utterance or at least had not realized my mistake was crushed immediately by my enthusiastic assailant. With a giggle she said, "The resemblance is remarkable, isn't it? At a distance it is easy to mistake James for Fitwilliam—I have done it myself."

Seizing my hand as if we were the best of friends, the lady pulled me across the vast room, "Come, let us inspect him more closely."

"Isn't he lovely?" she said when we were standing before the gentleman. "Past his prime perhaps, but he has held up well. Fitwilliam, I think, shall age well, too, and will look as every bit as distinguished when he is as absolutely ancient as James."

The lady chortled at her own jest. The gentleman's severe countenance remained unchanged except for his eyes which, when they gazed upon the lady, softened around the corners in an expression of tolerant fondness.

"Mr. Darcy, I presume," I said to the gentleman.

"Yes. James Darcy. Will's uncle. This silly creature is my wife Rebecca."

The lady beamed at the gentleman upon this remark, as if it had been the aspiration of her life to be deemed silly.

I begged them to be seated and called for tea. As soon as we had all settled in, a delicate little matter became hugely obvious. Rebecca Darcy's blazing mane of fiery red curls ought to have been the most noticeable thing about her. Those perfect spirals were guaranteed to be the envy of every lady whose fringe is destined to fall limp no matter how dexterously the curling tongs are applied.

Her hair was, however, not the most noticeable thing about her. Nor was it her beautiful day dress styled in the height of fashion which claimed first notice, though it certainly was not aiding in the concealment of the problem. Not sufficiently at least.

The most noticeable thing about Mrs. Rebecca Darcy was that she had an enormous bulge. In the abdominal region.

I have often heard remarks about the miraculous obscuring capabilities of the empire waist gown which allowed ladies who would have previously been forced to shun society at the first hint of the delicate condition to hide their secret a few weeks more. Mrs. Darcy's gown however had been pushed past the limit of its concealing abilities. A month ago.

She was certainly with child. And I was certainly staring.

I knew I must say something. Anything would do provided it was not, "Are you having twins?"

"Where is Fitzwilliam?" Mrs. Darcy demanded before I could make any sort of attempt at pleasantries.

"He left early this morning—just the house I mean, not town. I have been assured repeatedly he intends to return at some point," I said lightly in an attempt at humor.

Mrs. Darcy chuckled appreciatively but her husband remained stony faced. Mrs. Darcy asked about Georgiana's whereabouts and I was once again forced to admit ignorance.

"Mrs. Vane is here, I believe," I said desperately, "Shall I send someone to tell her you have come?"

"Oh, no. There is no need to disturb her," replied Mrs. Darcy far too quickly.

Her husband smirked. "Still afraid of my sister?"

"I am sure I am not afraid of anybody."

A look passed between them, his expression dubious hers assured. He apparently came out the victor in their silent struggle, for Mrs. Darcy felt the need to reiterate her position. "I am not afraid of Constance," she said, "I simply know she hates me and do not wish to force her into my company"

"Hate perhaps is too strong a word to describe her feelings."

The same silent discussion ensued again, this time with the lady playing the part of the doubter and the gentleman being the certain one. He conceded after a moment, "I said perhaps."

"We should not be speaking of your sister in this manner in front of our new niece. We do not want to poison Elizabeth's opinion of her."

"Constance can poison anyone's opinion of her all on her own. I am sure she gave you no reason to think well of her, did she?" Mr. James Darcy asked, turning his attention to me.

"Mrs. Vane has been perfectly polite to me."

"Perfectly polite and utterly ferocious?"

To confirm his suspicions by word would be impolitic. I allowed myself a slight smile, however.

"A mannerly sort of savagery runs in the family I am afraid. The Darcy temper is not one of our more admirable traits and my sister has perhaps the worst case of it. The disdainful manner in which she treats Rebecca I will never excuse. For any viciousness towards you however . . . well, I cannot say I blame her. I cannot say I feel entirely warmly towards you myself."

"James!"

Heedless of his wife's scolding, he went on,"Tell me, do you have any feeling for my nephew beyond an appreciation for his fortune?"

"James! You promised you wouldn't."

"I said I would be pleasant to her, I made no promises about not asking blunt questions."

"Blunt questions are outside of the realm of politeness."

"Yes, but you said pleasant, not polite. You cannot deny I asked in a most pleasant manner."

"Ignore him," the lady urged, her lips forming a tense smile,"We are absolutely thrilled to meet you and are certain you are a lovely lady who did not mean to trap Fitzwilliam into marriage."

"We are certain of no such thing. We should not be hasty to accept her into the family until we know her character."

"She _is_ part of the family. What good can possibly be accomplished by holding her suspect and treating her as though she is on trial. That is what your sister has done to me and my relationship with her has not benefited from the exercise!"

"Please—," I interrupted, anxious to halt their bickering—it was making my aching head pound all the more. "I am not at all insulted by your question. It is only natural for you to be concerned about your nephew. I do not know if you are aware of the particulars of our very sudden marriage—"

"Will told me it was brought about by mishap—an innocent situation which appeared inappropriate to prying eyes. He said the fault was all his own. But of course that is what a gentleman must say," James said with a sardonic smile.

"I would never claim to be innocent of fault, however I am innocent of mercenary intentions."

"Of course you are, dear,"interjected Mrs. Darcy.

Her husband shot her a silencing glance. She rolled her eyes, but spoke no further.

"I am very much indebted to Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam—for consenting to a marriage which can hold no advantage for himself. His sense of honor has saved my respectability, and I feel for him all the admiration and gratitude one would expect a person in my situation to feel. However to say I have feelings for him—the finer sort of feelings to which you refer—I cannot make such a claim."

James Darcy nodded, seemingly satisfied with my explanation. Rebecca however exclaimed with much indignation, "Why ever not?"

"I do not know Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam," I said immediately, startled at the sudden vehemence of her reaction. "We have had a few conversations and danced once. That is the extent of our acquaintance. I know of no lady who would object to his person nor anyone who could find fault with the quickness of his mind, however I feel to have true affection one must have a deeper understanding of the other person."

"Of course. I should not have spoken so scoldingly. You must be terrified to find yourself married to a man you barely know—but he is such a good man, you must believe me—yet a most unsettling situation, regardless. And now your husband's frightening relations have come bursting in asking ill-manner questions. We must beg your forgiveness; we have really been unforgivably rude."

I assured her no apology was necessary. The gentleman's expression told me no apology from him would be forthcoming. I was not yet beyond suspicion.

At this point tea arrived providing a well-timed distraction. I thought the subject would be dropped all together following the interruption, but after a perfunctory sip Rebecca Darcy sat her cup down and asked, "Are you sure you are not at least a little in love with him?"

"Forgive me, I am exasperating, I know, James is forever telling me so. I should not say anything. Yet I cannot help but think any woman would find herself half in love with any man who came to her rescue in such a manner. It seems terribly romantic to me," she said finishing with a girlish sigh. Not for the first time, I was reminded of my youngest sister.

"What utter nonsense," James Darcy said, putting to words exactly what I had been thinking. "You certainly did not fall so easily to my charms when I came to your rescue."

"What on earth did you rescue me from?"

"Monotonous spinsterhood. My dragon of an aunt. Do you not recall your circumstances prior to our marriage?"

"A comfortable spinsterhood in the company someone as lovely as your aunt could hardly be called a dire situation."

"Surely you are not speaking of Aunt Margaret, no one could call her lovely."

"She is a perfect dear."

"She is a finicky old termagant."

"You malign your own relation so energetically, what will Elizabeth think? Margaret Darcy— _my_ husband's aunt therefore _your_ husband's great aunt—is a lovely lady and I was so fortunate as to be her companion until my marriage."

"You are the only woman in England who could have tolerated her as long as you did. She is as vinegary as they come. And her dog—the dog is even worse than she is."

"The dog is darling! I will hear no criticism of Sir Seb."

"My wife has an affectionate nature; the less deserving of love an object is, the dearer it is to her," said James Darcy with much jocularity, his earlier mask of severity discarded. I saw now he had only worn it for my benefit. He was not grave by nature. He was not like my Mr. Darcy at all.

"Fortunately for you," the lady teasingly replied. Their eyes met and smiles played on their lips in perfect synchronicity.

I felt a sudden sharp stab of envy—longing—loss. Would I ever have such love?

The lady broke the loving stare first. She blinked several times slowly as if she were having trouble recalling where she was, then she said, "So now you understand Constance's objection to me. She finds it lowering to have a brother married to a hired companion. Of course she never really liked me even before. We were at school together, you see. One of those institutions supposed to make a girl ready for the marriage mart, or in the case of charity students like myself, ready for positions as governesses and companions."

I had been thinking Rebecca must be nearing thirty years of age, however if she was a contemporary of Mrs. Vane my estimate must be revised upward, closer to forty.

"Constance always did her best to make sure I felt my disadvantage. It was unkind of her. But then of course it must have been a very difficult time for her—her mother had only just died."

"What is her excuse for her behavior now I wonder?" asked James.

"You know perfectly well her husband has put her in an unhappy state. And you could not have expected her to readily accept your marriage to me. Decided bachelor that you were, I am sure everyone was surprised at your marrying at all, much less so far beneath your rank."

"Beneath my rank indeed! She is the orphaned daughter of a clergyman. You would think she was the daughter of a rag and bone man from the way she talks," he said to me. Turning back to his wife he continued, "But I daresay you are correct about everyone's surprise at seeing me wed. I never thought I would have the luxury of a wife. A man of my prior profession does not lead the sort of life that allows for one."

"What profession was that?" I asked.

Rebecca burst out before her husband could answer, "He was a spy! Isn't that simply thrilling?"

"I was _not_ a spy. Espionage is no less dishonorable than any other sort of prevarication," said James, he sat aside his tea, looking at me squarely to emphasize the truth of his words,"I was a diplomat. An unofficial diplomat for delicate assignments."

"Sounds very much like a spy, does it not?"

He cast her a menacing glare. She giggled.

"I have been deemed too old to fulfill my previous duties. I still serve His Majesty's interests, but I have been relegated to the role of glorified clerk."

"He instructs future spies."

"They are not spies. I was never a spy."

Patting his hand, his wife said soothingly, "Of course not, darling."

I was about to ask James about his travels when the lady's hand flew to her stomach and she exclaimed "Oh!"

I was fully prepared to ring the bell and tell the housekeeper to call the midwife and prepare a room and do whatever else one is supposed to to when a lady goes into labor in the drawing room, but then a look of elation came to Rebecca's features and she whispered, "The baby kicked!"

Her eyes darted to me and I took a very sudden interest in the rug, anxious to pretend I had witnessed nothing so as not to embarrass her.

Pregnant women are, of course, mythical creatures. Any evidence to the contrary is awkward and embarrassing and should be actively ignored. Human young do not gestate because, really, how undignified. Infants simply appear out of nowhere most unexpectedly and we are all very shocked indeed when we receive an invitation to a Christening. Now I am married whatever unseen force that goes about parceling out children might visit me at any moment and then—whoosh—sudden baby. I do hope it has the decency to wait until I am at least nine months wed.

"You say you do not know when Fitzwilliam will return?" asked Rebecca when the uncomfortable moment had passed.

I admitted I did not.

"Unconscionable of him leaving you to face the wolves like this, he must have known we would come. We should have let you newlyweds have at least a day of peace, but he knows I am far too eager to be polite in such a situation. And I have such wonderful news I wanted to share."

If the news had anything to do with the bump she was once again unconsciously rubbing I doubted Darcy would be much surprised.

"And Georgiana, she is with Fitzwilliam?"

"No, they left separately. She is with a Mrs Annesley, whoever she may be."

"Mrs. Annesley is Georgie's companion, of course. Have you not been introduced?" asked Rebecca.

Feeling rather stupid, I admitted I had not. As mistress of the house I ought to know—or at least know of—all the members of the household.

"Mrs. Annesley was not at dinner yesterday evening," I said as if that was some defense for my ignorance.

"Oh, she would not have been," replied Rebecca, "Constance does not think it appropriate for her to dine with the family. My sister-in-law has most stringent views concerning the proper place of hired companions."

Most stringent indeed. Companions I had known dined with the family and were sometimes even invited to dine out in order to even the numbers of some neighbor's dinner party.

"When Mrs. Annnesley is here in town," continued Rebecca, "At least she does have Miss Hopkins, the governess. I believe they dine together."

"Oh yes, the girls' governess, I have met her," I said relieved at being able to show some awareness of my household.

"I have nothing against Mrs. Annesley, but her hiring should not have been necessary. My sister is perfectly capable of looking after Georgie, taking her to shops and on little excursions and such. It would be good for Constance to get out of the house, always keeping to her rooms cannot be healthy," James observed.

This was the second mention of Mrs. Vane's reclusive conduct and despite her coldness towards myself I was beginning to feel sorry for her. Could the poor woman really have not left the house since her husband's embarrassment?

"I'm sure you and Georgiana will be fast friends and I wonder if Fitzwilliam intends to keep Mrs. Annesley on. I would suggest she seek a position with Margaret—."

"I thought you _liked_ Mrs. Annesley."

"I would suggest she seek a position with your aunt," Rebecca began again, ignoring her husband's interruption "but she has Dora to stay with her now. Dorothea Darcy is—how is she related to you again, dear?"

"Distantly."

"How uncharacteristically imprecise of you."

James sighed, "A second cousin. Twice removed? No, that isn't it. I do not know how to answer this question without drawing a family tree. Suffice it to say Dora is somehow related to us through a less prosperous branch of the family and as the poor relation has been given the unsavory task of looking after Aunt Margaret."

"Margaret Darcy is lovely."

"She is no such thing. But Dora seems to tolerate her well enough, but then Dora is a little . . . ." James pulled a face, bulging his eyes and stretching his lips tight until his teeth showed. He looked altogether mad. Apparently there were really no words to describe Dora Darcy's peculiarities.

"Dora is lovely as well!"

James shook his head, "She is an odd girl. Abrupt. Standoffish. Spends a good deal of time staring at the ceiling. Will says she has some rather intriguing ideas, but I've never got a word of sense out of her. They have the same severe manner though, so perhaps she is more comfortable with him."

Suddenly, as if some striking thought had just occurred to him, his eyes narrowed and he considered me very closely.

"I can see that you, Elizabeth, are in possession of an open sort of manner that charms easily, but has trouble hiding its opinions—it is your eyes, dear niece, they give too much away. My nephew I fear will give you trouble."

"James!"

"He is closed off and there is really nothing for it but to wait him out. If he deems you worthy of knowing him he may let you in at the gates. Trying to breach the walls will do you no favors, however. Patience is key. I do not envy you—you are in for a long siege."

"James, really. It is not necessary to scare her."

"I am giving her sound advice."

"By likening your nephew to a fortress? You make him sound terrifying. He is just a little shy, dear. Really. And perhaps a little . . . sedate. But Fitzwilliam is an absolutely lovely person."

"I am glad to hear you say so." This was spoken by Mr. Darcy—my Mr. Darcy—as he strode into the room.


	6. Eccentric Relations Part Two

My husband greeted his aunt and uncle, not effusively but warmly. To me he gave a curt nod.

Yes, an absolutely lovely person.

Fine. I perhaps deserved this less-than-affectionate greeting after last night's debacle. But he had been kind to me during my self inflicted illness and I had hoped we would continue being kind to each other today. Apparently not. The man was a fortress indeed. And crowning his walls were iron spikes.

"What could have possibly taken you away from your charming bride so early this morning?" Rebecca chided playfully almost as soon as Darcy had sat down.

In his usual succinct fashion Darcy replied, "I had things I needed to do."

Wonderfully vague. I suppose I could take heart in the knowledge he did not leave to idle about.

Either Rebecca understood the futility of pressing Darcy or she was too eager to move to the subject she was most desirous to speak of to bother for she allowed this paltry explanation to pass without comment. Positively vibrating with joy, she said, "Well, I am so glad you have arrived. It would be better perhaps to wait until a time Georgiana—and Constance, of course, are here, but I can barely contain my excitement. It has been so difficult to keep it just amongst James and me all these weeks.

She paused to draw a deep breath, heightening the suspense. "Though I am certain you cannot yet tell, I am enceinte."

"Indeed?" my husband asked his tone infused with just the correct amount of incredulity. He kept his countenance perfectly. I however could not do so. I was forced to bite the insides of my mouth to keep from laughing. Oh goodness, did she really believe no one could tell?

"I have surprised you! You see, James, I told you no one could tell. You only notice now because I told you. You did not suspect?" she asked turning her attention back to Darcy.

"Not at all."

No one should be able to lie so confidently.

She looked to me and I managed what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

"I thought I might be too old to have children—such a wonderful surprise. James and I are so pleased."

The look on her husband's face suggested his feelings might be slightly less than pleased. In fact, the poor man looked queasy. Noticing my interest, he schooled his expression into something almost like elation.

Rebecca's further effusions were interrupted by a racket in the hall. A moment later a dog burst into the room, tiny legs carrying its over-plump body with astonishing alacrity as it yapped wildly.

"Sir Seb!" Rebecca cried in greeting to the mongrel, which only made it bark all the more excitedly. My husband plucked a biscuit from the tea tray and lobbed it at the dog. It fell instantly silent.

The butler arrived on the heels of the corpulent canine looking thoroughly discomposed.

"Mrs. Margaret Darcy and Miss Dorothea Darcy," he announced with as much decorum as he could manage.

"Ahem," prompted a voice from the entryway.

With great reluctance he added, "And Sir Sebastian Shivershanks." The butler shuddered delicately. Clearly it was beneath his dignity to announce a dog, be he a baronet or not.

Two ladies entered, one very young and one very elderly indeed.

Apparently having forgotten she was no longer her companion, Rebecca sprang forward grasping the elder lady's arm and attempting to guide her to a chair.

The lady wrenched herself away, finishing the trek across the room on her own.

"Child, I am old, not an invalid. How many times must I tell you this? If anyone needs help finding a chair, it's Dora. Goodness, someone grab her before she strolls out the window."

Dora Darcy was the superior of my husband it would seem. He might be able to read in a moving carriage, but she could read whilst walking. Not in a straight line, mind you, but walking all the same.

"Dora!" shouted the venerable Aunt Margaret.

The girl startled, nearly dropping her book, she looked about rapidly as if she had just woken.

"Come here, girl. Fitzwilliam is going to introduce us to his wife."

"Why? We both know she must be that lady there. And she knows who we are, for Saunders just announced us," said Dora with much exasperation.

"Yes, dear, but it is one of those niceties that must be observed no matter how little sense it makes."

The girl sighed, but obeyed. Introductions were made. All the 'How do you dos' and 'So lovely to make your acquaintances' were said at the proper times. The world remained nice if not altogether sensible.

When we were all seated and fresh tea called for (and an additional hush biscuit paid to Sir Sebastian's account), Aunt Margaret fished from her reticule a lorgnette which she held up to her eyes. She peered at me, reviewing my face with great scrutiny.

"Hmmm. Well, now stand up, girl, let me look at you," she commanded.

I found myself once again standing. I was a little disappointed by my own docility, but I wanted to show my husband I could be ever so proper. And Margaret Darcy is kind of person you listen to without question.

"Hmmm. A bit bony, but otherwise almost pretty. I suppose, Fitzwilliam, we can make out that you are _that_ sort of fool. Overwhelmed by base desires—that is the kind of rot everyone wants to hear. That nonsense about accidentally ripping her bodice will never be believed. Turn."

I turned.

"Slowly."

I slowed.

"Hmmmmmmm."

I could not help it, it was all too ridiculous, a smile tugged at my lips.

"Why on earth are you smiling like that, child?"

I had really no intention of putting on my mad, toothy grin, but Darcys bring out the worst in me.

"I thought you might like to inspect my teeth as well. I know there is a certain proverb instructing one not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I do have good teeth and they should not be missed when making an audit of my better qualities."

"You are sharp," said the old lady, her tone was, to my relief, admiring rather than accusatory.

"I am. I find it much more amusing than being dull, though one does have to speak with care as not to cut oneself."

"For all your care, I daresay you've wounded yourself a time or two."

"Oh, yes, direly," I replied with a laugh.

"Hmmmm. Your looks improve with animation. I can now see how a man might find you tempting enough to ignore all expectations and defy every stricture of decorum," with a look to my husband she added, "Yes, I see it now, she is actually quite pretty."

Darcy said nothing. A wry smile came to his lips, but then was gone as quickly as it had appeared lest people start to think he was a man with thoughts and reactions rather than a statue.

"It pleases me, ma'am, to hear you say so for, though my looks I have previously earned the honor of being tolerable enough, I have it on great authority that I am not at all tempting," I said.

I sneaked another glance at Darcy. Disappointingly he had no reaction. Not even a fleeting one. He either did recognize his own words or felt no contrition for having been overheard.

"Sit, girl," commanded Margaret, "Why are you standing? I'll get a neck ache looking up at you."

Apparently my inspection was complete. I sat.

"Aunt—Dorothea, so good to see you," said Mrs. Vane as she glided imperiously into the room. If anyone could be said to walk imperiously it was her. "Why was I not informed of your arrival?" This was spoken to me. Before I could make any answer, her attention shifted. "Ah, James, you are here as well . . . and your wife. How _lovely_."

Sir Sebastian began barking madly again. He hopped down from Margaret's lap and appeared fully prepared to tear at Mrs. Vanes skirts. Unthinkingly I scooped him up into my arms.

Everyone gasped (excepting Dora who was once again enthralled by her book) then, when whatever tragedy they were anxious of failed to occur, released a collective breath (Dora turned a page).

"He is generally a sweet dog," said Rebecca in answer to my curious glance, "But sometimes he takes a little nibble of someone when he is surprised."

Ah. So they had expected the dog to rip my face off.

Sir Sebastian did not seem inclined to maul me. He wagged his little nub of a tail and looked up at me with his great big adorable eyes which seemed to ask, "Who are you and what will you feed me?"

"Good, he likes you," Margaret said, nodding approvingly. "That will make everything so much easier when I leave him with you."

"Pardon?" Darcy and I said simultaneously.

"Mrs. Bythesea has asked me to visit her, she is very likely dying and I must go to her. The problem is she cannot abide dogs. Cat person, I am afraid. Despite that deficiency she has been my dear friend these sixty years and I really must see her before the end. So I will be leaving Sebby and Dora here with you today—"

"Today?" My husband and I burst out again.

"Yes, today. I must start out immediately if I am to make it in time to see Susan. I could take Dora with me I suppose, but it is no place for a young lady. She is nineteen. I really ought to have insisted she make her come out last year, but she had no inclination and I fear I do not get out much in society these days."

Margaret paused to sigh.

"The poor girl is becoming strange. Last week she got a monstrous beetle in the post. It was dead, thank the Lord, in a little glass box with pins all through it. She was pleased as anything with it."

Without looking up from her book Dora said in the flat tone of one much put upon, "It was a prime example of a _Nebria Lividia_ . I needed to illustrate it for Mr. Bartlett's encyclopedia."

"The girl spends all her time sketching insects. It is high time a husband is found for her—before people start calling her eccentric. This would be the perfect opportunity to take her about since Elizabeth must be introduced to everyone anyway. And at this time of year, before the season has really begun, it should be less overwhelming for her. Yes, yes it will work out wonderfully. Elizabeth can be her chaperon—a much better option than having some frightening old woman toting her about. Shockingly, some people find me intimidating."

Her words made me break out in a cold sweat all over. "Me? Be her chaperon? As you said, I will have to be introduced around, I have no acquaintance in town and I would not know—I have no idea—truly there must be someone else."

I looked to my husband pleadingly.

"I must concur, Elizabeth would make a most unsuitable chaperon," said Darcy.

I tried not to be offended at his words. They were exactly what I had been thinking. But really! He had the most insulting way of putting things.

Rebecca saw the hurt cross my features before I could hide it. Cautiously she said, "Though I am sure Elizabeth would be perfectly splendid, would it not be better for me to chaperon Dora?"

"Rebecca, dear child, you are set to whelp any day now, you cannot be taking Dora hither and tither," replied Margaret.

Rebecca's hand flew to her abdomen. "You know? That I am enceinte?"

Mrs. Vane snorted. Margaret cast a glare at her niece.

"Everyone knows, child."

"Everyone?" Rebecca looked entreatingly to James. He reluctantly nodded.

"Oh."

"So you see, it must be Elizabeth," finished Margaret.

" _I_ ought to be the one to chaperon Dora." Mrs. Vane appeared rather put out at having been overlooked.

"Indeed, you ought to be," agreed Margaret cheerfully, "You would be required to face the ton, however. Are you prepared to do so?"

"I—I—oh," Mrs. Vane sputtered. If I had not seen it with my own eyes I never would have believed her capable of anything so indelicate as sputtering. Even more remarkably, she followed up this indecorous display by muttering indistinctly. Then, in high dudgeon, she quit the room.

Margaret sighed. "I know it is not the done thing to wish someone dead, but I do think it would have been better for Constance if Henry Vane were definitely dead rather than having all this uncertainty. If he has done away with himself, as the gossips seem to think he has, it would have been much more considerate of him to have hanged himself or poisoned himself—none of this throwing himself into the river nonsense—and he ought to have left a note. Then he never was a considerate man. Terrible mistake for her to have married him for all his charm.

"Yet, you see, if his body had turned up, at least then she might be certain the shame was all over. As it is he might turn up alive at anytime and heap embarrassment on her all over again. I suppose a body might be found. One that appears enough like Henry to claim it. I know where bodies can be had if one really needs one."

"That does not surprise me at all, Aunt," said James.

"But it would be so like him to turn up alive right after we went through the trouble of getting him declared dead."

Menacingly James said, "I should like to hunt him down. Produce a body that matches exactly."

"James, really," scolded his wife.

My husband, ever the voice of reason, said, "Before any corpses are fetched or made, I think we ought to return to the previous subject."

"Quite right, I need to be leaving soon if I am to start today. I do not expect to be gone for much more than a month. Susan doesn't have long, poor lady. Dora will be no trouble. You might even have her married off by then. You are quite the expert at catching husbands it would seem.

I am not too refined to sputter and I did so at this juncture, "I—you—I."

"It is all right. I think it very clever of you to have caught Fitzwilliam. And Dora will need your unorthodox methods if I am ever to get her off my hands."

Margaret dramatically sighed once more.

"Now Sebby there" she said,indicating with a nod of her head the dog who was still sitting happily in my lap, "his behavior I cannot vouch for, I fear. You must attend to his walks yourself. Servants cannot be trusted with him, he is too cunning and will slip his lead. I am terribly sorry to leave him behind, but it must be done."

Again I turned my pleading gaze to my husband. He must say something. This situation was all too absurd, surely he would not stand for it.

"We would of course be honored to have Dorothea—and Sir Sebastian—stay with us."

That was not at all what I wanted him to say.


	7. Lurking in the Library

**5th December 1811**

 **Morning**

It was on the sideboard where all the breakfast dishes were laid, at the end on a pile with the other morning news sheets. _The Society Papers of Lady Whisperton_ claimed the heading. A gossip rag. I put it back where I had found it.

Then I picked it up again.

I do not read gossip sheets as a rule, but this one was a mystery. It was here in a house I instinctively knew such frivolous things would not be tolerated. And an announcement had been circled.

Looking around to confirm the room was deserted (one can never be too careful here, Darcys are a stealthy breed) I took the paper over to the nearest chair, balancing my shamelessly overfilled plate in my other hand (I barely touched my food at dinner last night, I find I lose my appetite under scrutiny). The indicated announcement read:

" _Ambitious_ _M_ _amas and_ _U_ _nmarried_ _M_ _isses, I must tell you a tale of sorrow. The delectable Mr. D, distinguished bachelor of Derbyshire, is a bachelor no more. He was lately wed to a Miss B. Do not try to decipher that cypher,_ _D_ _ear_ _R_ _eader, for you will never guess as the lady in question was_ _unknown even to_ _this well-informed author._

 _One might surmise that it is a love match—why else would_ _that_ _gentleman_ _align himself with a country nobody with nary a penny?_

 _However, the truth may be less romantic._ _It would_ _compromise_ _my dignity to discuss the matter_ _in detail_ _, but suffice it to say the marriage came about under most extraordinary circumstances."_

"What are you reading?"

This was spoken by Darcy. The Darcy. Supreme Darcy of Darcy House. Master of Avoidance, Sardonic Eyebrow Raises, and Judgmental Glares. Presently he was giving me the Judgmental Glare of Doom. I dropped the offending paper as if it were a pair Mr. Collins's soiled smalls.

Not suspicious at all, Lizzy. Well done, you. Of course he would find me reading drivel.

Mr. Darcy approached. Have I mentioned how obnoxiously he walks? It is a manly version of Mrs. Vane's imperious glide. Like he owns the room. Which in this case, of course, he does.

He stood next to me, looming over me expectantly like a great dreary tower. Given how tall he is I suppose he cannot help it. But I get the feeling he _likes_ towering. Insufferable man.

It is perhaps obvious that I am once again a little peeved at him. And once again he probably does not deserve my peevishness. Which oddly makes me all the more peeved.

My peevishness can do him no harm however because he has been avoiding me. How am I ever to apologize to him for our wedding night and demonstrate how very pleasant and most importantly _sober_ I can be if he is forever out of the house? Yesterday after our visitors left I was preoccupied with making Dora comfortable and finding a servant willing to see to Sir Sebastian needs (apparently he has a Reputation—enough of one to warrant capitalization—and the maids were all tripping over each other in their haste to escape the horrible fate of looking after him). By the time everything was settled Darcy had gone out again.

I picked up the gossip sheet which had fallen into my lap and offered it to him. "It was on the sideboard. Is it yours?" I asked sweetly.

He took the paper wordlessly.

"Someone so helpfully circled the pertinent information," I said as his eyes roved the page. I thought I knew who that someone was.

"Interesting," he said after a moment.

"Yes, most flattering is it not? To know our misfortunes are worthy gossip sheet fodder."

" _Misfortunes_?" He pronounced the word caustically, every syllable a sharpened blade. I faltered.

He spoke again before I could recover. "You found this here?" he asked, his tone regulated, betraying none of the sharpness he had expressed only a moment before.

"As I said."

"I am sorry if it has upset you. I will take care of it."

At first I thought he meant take care of it as in pistols at dawn with Lady Whisperton. Or perhaps less sensationally, taking care of it by filing a suit of libel against the printer.

"My sister will apologize," he assured.

Of course. Being a rational man, he meant take care of it by scolding his sister. Yet again. He returned just in time for dinner last night with a sullen Georgiana in tow. She had evidently been hiding at the Bingley's all day, no doubt discussing my perfidy with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. The siblings appeared none-too-pleased with each other, which made me certain Mr. Darcy had scolded his sister for decamping.

Without the slightest bit of conviction I said, "You cannot be certain it was Georgiana who left it here."

There was really no one else it could have been. If Mrs. Vane were to lower herself by admitting to purchasing a gossip sheet, she would hand it to me directly just to see the look on my face. And if Dora has any awareness that there is such a thing as a gossip sheet, or indeed gossip in general, I should be heartily surprised.

It occurred to me that another round of scolding would turn Georgiana unalterably against me. "Please, Mr. Darcy, do not mention it to your sister. I am not at all upset and really it is actually helpful to know what is being said."

"It was not meant to be helpful."

"No, but sometimes it is better to ignore bad behavior. Sometimes to deprive the offender of a reaction is punishment enough." I tried to tug the sheet from his grasp, but he pulled it away from me.

"I think I know best how to deal with my own sister," he said coldly.

Frustrating man! Why was he speaking to me as if I had been the naughty one? And why did every conversation between us turn into an argument?

Not bothering to keep my sarcasm in check I said, "I am sure you are right."

In reply he rolled his eyes.

It is difficult to explain why this particular gesture annoys me so much when Darcy does it. Lydia rolls her eyes at me all the time and it gives me only amusement. Perhaps because when my husband casts his eyes in a heavenward direction he silently says, "I cannot put into words how exasperatingly ridiculous you are." Or worse and perhaps more likely, "You are not even worth me putting into words how exasperatingly ridiculous you are." Of course this is probably what Lydia means by the gesture as well, but Lydia is Lydia; one cannot be wounded by the derision of a silly child.

Mr. Darcy's derision however . . . . The man makes me feel inferior. It is not that I think Mr. Darcy is my intellectual superior. Certainly not.

Probably not.

That is to say he is certainly better educated. Obviously. I didn't even have a governess. But that does not mean he is cleverer than I.

Does it?

And why should it matter if he is cleverer? It should not. It does not. Only . . . .

Only he does not think me clever enough to understand his feelings, he dismisses me with a roll of his eyes. It is most unfair. Well, perhaps not. I have given him reason to doubt my sense. Twice now.

"Well . . . ." he let the word hang there, drawing out the awkwardness of the moment as only Mr. Darcy can. "I have things I must attend to. Good morning," he gave me a nod and turned on his heel.

"Will you not take breakfast?" I asked, nearly shouting in my desperation to halt him.

"I've already eaten," he replied without turning back. He left as imperiously as he had entered.

Strange, vexing man. What did he come here for if not to eat?

I was considering abandoning all dignity and chasing after him, demanding . . . something—a conversation—a chance for us to be agreeable to each other—but Sir Sebastian waddled briskly into the room as if _he_ owned it and then launched himself into my lap as if he owned me as well.

I could have deposited the dog onto the floor, caught up with Mr. Darcy and apologized for my inebriation on our wedding night and for whatever misunderstanding that had just caused him to leave so abruptly (really, I have no idea why things turned so suddenly antagonistic between us) but Sir Sebastian had already made himself quite comfortable, so I let him be my excuse for cowerdice.

I would look silly if I went dashing after Darcy anyway. And what could I possibly say?

"What am I to do?" I asked aloud.

The dog regarded me seriously.

"My husband cannot bear to be in the same room with me apparently."

My eyes prickled. My bottom lip wobbled dangerously. I bit down on it hard.

"No, you will not, Lizzy. You. Will. Not."

Sir Sebastian cocked his head endearingly, his eyes displaying great concern. Somehow that made it all the worse.

I sniffed. It was a wet, gurgling, I-am-about-to-bawl-like-a-child-denied-a-sweet sniff. No. No. No. I refused to cry over eggs and blood pudding whilst conducting a one-sided conversation with an obese terrier; it was just too ridiculous.

The dog placed one of his front paws comfortingly on my arm as if to say, "Steady on. It cannot be all that bad."

"You are right, of course. I am not even two full days wed, there is no need for despair yet. I have plenty of time to fix my marriage. A lifetime, actually."

I patted Sir Sebby and he rolled over as to give better access to his enormous belly. "Good, good, that's settled then," he said (not aloud, of course, I haven't run completely mad—he said this with his _eyes_ ) "Now give me a sausage—that's a good girl."

* * *

 **Evening**

I have never ridden to the hounds being neither an accomplished horsewoman nor a great huntress so I never knew until now how exciting the chase could be. Now, after nearly a full day on his trail, my quarry is within range.

Yet here I tarry in the library, hiding pathetically behind a bookshelf whilst spying on my husband, too shocked join the scene happening before me.

Mr. Darcy is being pleasant. I've seen him polite. Yesterday he was everything polite to his relations, he even displayed real affection for them even if a certain stiffness of manner was still present. Pleasantness I thought would be quite beyond his talents. Apparently not. It is most disconcerting.

"I should not have let the girls trouble you, sir," said little Miss Hopkins as she worried at the lace on her sleeve. She is the fidgety sort, at least in the presence of Mr. Darcy.

"To say they are no trouble at all would be an outrageous falsehood as I am certain they trouble you from waking until sleep, so I will say instead they are of no inconvenience to _me_ and commit no perjury," Darcy said as he walked along the shelves. Stopping suddenly, he plucked a book from the topmost shelf and offered it to Henrietta who accepted the tome with a happy squeal.

Still picking at her lace fretfully the governess replied,"They are not _so_ very troublesome."

"Then you have the tolerance of a saint," Darcy teased with a wink at Belinda and Henrietta.

"Troublesome we may be, but we are a delightful sort of trouble. A few puckish, meddlesome characters are necessary in any good farce," said Henrietta.

"Our lives are a farce then?" challenged Darcy.

After a thoughtful pause Henrietta answered loftily, "Better farce than tragedy." She grinned at her own cleverness.

"We are studying the work of Shakespeare." Miss Hopkins said, she must have felt Darcy's questioning glance rather than observed it for she had yet to look him in the eye.

"I preferred Marlowe," announced Belinda. "His plays had far more death and demons. I particularly like demons."

"We have yet to cover Shakespeare's histories and tragedies," Miss Hopkins put in hurriedly

"Ah, I see," said Darcy. "You may yet alter your opinion, Belinda. _Macbeth_ will appeal to you especially, I should think."

"Has it demons?"

"Witches."

Belinda scrunched up her nose. Clearly witches were hardly sinister enough to be interesting.

"And ghosts. And it is set in Scotland."

"Perhaps I'll like it then," she said doubtfully.

"Do you want anything else?" Darcy asked, addressing Henrietta.

"I'd like to read _Tom Jones_."

"Your mother will have my head if I let you read _Tom Jones_. Anything else?"

"Why can I not read it? You have read it, have you not?"

"I have."

"What is so very bad about it?"

"Nothing . . . much."

"All Mother will tell me is that it is low."

"There are subjects within it not entirely appropriate for the sensibilities of a young lady."

Henrietta scoffed and rolled her eyes. I cannot fault her for the eye rolling. That was the only reply such a declaration deserved.

I wonder if he would let _me_ read _Tom Jones_?

"How did you come to hear of _Tom Jones_ anyway?"

Miss Hopkins trembled. She shook her head vigorously to proclaim her innocence though Darcy was not looking her way.

"Uncle James recommended it."

"Of course," said Darcy with a sigh of exasperation. "Have some consideration for me, keep to your Burney and Edgeworth and be happy."

"After I finish these last two books I will have read everything. Everything. _**E**_ _ **ver**_ _ **y**_ _ **thing**_. And there will be nothing else to do. I suppose I will have to become more troublesome."

"You will have read all books ever written excepting _Tom Jones_? How remarkable. I knew you were a great reader, but I had not suspected you had attained so complete an accomplishment."

Henrietta pouted winsomely. Darcy stared unaffectedly back at her. Turning to the younger sister he asked, "Miss Belinda what do you require?"

"I want something about torture."

"You wish for a manual outlining proper procedure?"

"I want a history. Something about someone who did something really bad and was sent to the Tower. Anything that ends in drawing and quartering is best."

"What a gruesome little thing you are," said Darcy with affection. "I believe I possess a history of the Tower of London. Might that quench your slightly alarming thirst for the grim and grisly?"

"Let's have it."

Darcy strode across the room in pursuit of the book and I had to dart from my hiding place and squat down behind another shelf to prevent discovery. I know, I know. I should declare myself. Lurking here is strange and if I am found out we will perhaps have an answer to the age old question: Can one actually die of mortification? But I know if I show myself Darcy will find he has something he desperately needs do in another part of the house. Or perhaps another part of England entirely. So I will keep myself unnoticed and learn what I can. Call this a fact gathering mission.

"There are some fine engravings of executions and various torture machines, I believe," said Darcy as he handed the book to Belinda.

"Oh, goody."

"Bel, your excitement is unseemly," scolded Henrietta.

"Leave her be. When I was her age I had a special fondness for the histories of treasonous criminals and their subsequent executions," said Darcy.

Henrietta turned to her cousin with a look of exasperation. "Yes, but you were a boy," she explained carefully as if this information might be news to him. "Boys are allowed to be disgusting."

"So they are," he agreed. "Have you ever been to the Tower to see the Royal Menagerie?"

The girls shook their heads. "Would you take us?" Belinda asked hopefully.

"If your mother agrees."

"She won't," said a crestfallen Henrietta. "She will say it is not refined to gawk at beasts with common people."

"I believe I could convince her it was educational."

"Oh, would you?" said Belinda.

" _Tom Jones_ might be said to be educational," Henrietta wheedled.

"Hush. Let him get us to the Tower first and then you can worry about your stupid book."

"Anything for you Miss Hopkins?"

The governess, finding Mr. Darcy's attention suddenly upon, her took interest in her lace once more.

"Oh, I shouldn't."

"You have already read all of the histories in the collection, I should think."

"Well, I do not know about _that_."

"Perhaps you would like a novel this time."

"Oh, I shouldn't," she said again, "So frivolous," she added in a murmur.

"A little diversion on occasion is acceptable. Necessary even."

"Well, perhaps."

"I have just the thing. I have recently acquired Mrs. Brunton's debut which everyone seems so enraptured by."

It was clearly a great feat of Miss Hopkins's self-control not to seize the book and run off with it gleefully. She accepted it daintily enough however, and even managed to look Darcy in the eye for a full second.

"Is it as exciting as people say?"

"I haven't read it yet. You will have to tell me."

Miss Hopkins nearly dropped the book in horror. "I couldn't read it first!"

"Why ever not?"

"Not proper . . . the family should. . . ." I could not fully hear her breathless explanation from my hiding place.

"The wonderful thing about books is they lose nothing by being read no matter how many readers peruse them. Provided none of those readers get jam on them," Darcy said with a glance to Belinda.

The girl defended herself primly, "That book didn't lose anything. I left it perfectly intact."

"Yes, I suppose it gained something in that case. Stickiness," said Darcy dryly. "I believe I can trust you not to spill your tea on it or give away the ending, Miss Hopkins."

"Thank you, sir." The governess gave an awkward little curtsy and almost fell over. She opened the book with relish. "There is just something glorious about a new book. The way the spine cracks perhaps. Or maybe the scent. It is the scent of potential adventure, do not you think?"

She offered the book around for olfactory inspection. Darcy and Henrietta agreed with Miss Hopkins's whimsical assertion, but Belinda said, "It just smells like paper."

While Miss Hopkins's life was surely comfortable enough there must be few indulgences in it, I realized. Darcy had realized that, too. My husband could be not only pleasant but thoughtful. I did not know why I should feel surprised by this revelation. I had witnessed it before. He had cared for me on our unfortunate wedding night.

But I had convinced myself his kindness was an aberration. Apparently not. I am not exactly certain how to feel about this information. I am not exactly certain how to feel about anything.


	8. Bart the Bird

_AN: I know I've made you wait too long again. Worse still, this chapter is short and mostly fun and fluff, but we are getting closer to the heart of it all. Next chapter there will be some real meat—maybe even sausage. I will not make promises as I am abysmal at keeping them, but I will try to update more quickly than I have been of late._

* * *

 **6th December, 1811**

There is a bird on my head.

It ought to be on Mrs. Vane's head. Nay, it ought to in a tree somewhere in the West Indies looking after its nest and doing whatever else birds do with their time. Instead its mate has been left a widow and it finds itself an adornment upon the ugliest headdress ever made. It is a tragedy for the bird and a tragedy for me.

Mostly for me.

"See how imposing you look? It is exactly what we want."

I squinted into mirror just in case it was my vision that was failing rather than Mrs. Vane's. No, there it is, a scarlet, green, and yellow bird of paradise, wings outstretched, its sightless glass eyes staring out from the side of my head.

The milliner's assistant who is holding up the mirror gave me a pitying look, she a least knows how absurd her employer's creation is. I do not deserve her pity however. Like everything in my life this my own fault. When I am dead I am certain my headstone will read, "She brought it on herself."

I was trying to bond with my sister-in-law. When my sisters and I would go shopping we would always try to find the ugliest thing in the shop—make it a competition of sorts. We could usually get a few minutes of amusement making derisive comments about the item and then when we would later see the ugly thing on some tasteless poor soul—usually Mrs. Long—have all the merriment of trying to suppress our laughter and when someone inevitably burst out in a fit of giggles—usually Kitty—someone—always me—would have to produce an outlandish excuse for our mirth. Hilarity all around.

I thought that I might continue this tradition with Georgiana and, indeed, when I pointed the headdress out to her she stifled a chuckle and whispered "Who would wear that?" even though she had been endeavoring not to speak to me all day. Thrilled to have elicited a comment from her I exclaimed, "I know!" just a little too loudly, garnering Mrs. Vane's attention.

And now I have a dead bird pinned to my head.

It is most unfortunate, for before Mrs. Vane interrupted I really think Georgiana and I were on the cusp of friendship. I have been wearing her down with my wit and charm since the dressmaker arrived this morning and Mrs. Vane declared it a ladies' day in (isn't every day a ladies' day in for Mrs. Vane?—But I digress).

In the beginning Georgiana was as cold as ever and, though she made no illusions to it, I could tell she was smarting from whatever scolding Darcy had given her for her attempted weaponization of _Lady Whisperton's Society Pages_. However as the day progressed and I endured a million little remarks by Mrs. Vane about my figure, hair, skin, posture, bearing (which I was certain was the same thing as posture but according to Mrs. Vane is not), address, taste in fashion, and that "mad-looking face you keep making" (but, I am glad to mention, not my teeth which as I have said are my best feature) all the while remaining perfectly amiable, she began to warm to me (Georgiana, I mean—I doubt Mrs. Vane will ever warm to me).

At luncheon she smiled at an amusing comment I had made (Mrs. Vane frowned, Dora made an unrelated remark about beetles). Later, when the tedious measurements had been taken and the orders for gowns completed, she produced a commiserating little groan when I, rejoicing prematurely, made as if to escape Mrs. Vane's dressing room only to be told our day of consumerism was just half complete.

We did at least get to leave Mrs. Vane's dressing room, relocating to the drawing room which had been transformed into the Hat House of Horrors it is now (I wonder what the name of the milliner's shop really is—he should consider changing to Hat House of Horrors, it has a certain ring to it). Honestly, of the selection of hats and headdresses he brought with him, only the bird is truly terrible and if things had gone to plan I would have been quite grateful for it. As I said I had very nearly broken through Georgiana's determination to hate me. She had finally spoken to me! I am certain one good session of brutally mocking the poor fashion sense of other ladies would have solidified our friendship.

"Do you not think it striking, Georgiana?" Mrs. Vane asked, turning to her niece.

Georgiana's internal struggle was so obvious, I could see it playing out on her face. On one hand I am the fool who compromised her brother, forever ruining his hopes of making a love match (or—if he never had any interest in such an irrational, mawkish entanglement—an advantageous match) on the other hand I am ever so kind and amusing and, really, the whole compromise thing was an accident—it could have happened to anyone.

Finally she replied most diplomatically, "I'm not certain it is the right selection for Elizabeth."

If this question had been asked of me and someone I mildly loathed—for instance Miss Bingley—was wearing a taxidermal parakeet I think it would have been impossible for me to say anything other than, "Most striking. You simply must purchase it." So Georgiana must not loathe me anymore! Or perhaps she is just a less vindictive person than me.

This was clearly not the answer Mrs. Vane wanted. Misguidedly she turned to Dora for support.

"What do you think, Dora?"

Without looking up from her sketching Dora said, "I think, though Reaumur's discoveries concerning the affects of temperature upon insect populations are very admirable, his complete neglect of the beetle in his writings on natural history is disgraceful."

"About the headpiece," Mrs. Vane ground out impatiently. She gestured at my head as if Dora might not notice the monstrosity without prompting (though knowing Dora it is possible she might not).

Dora shrugged and went back to her work.

"Do you know what sort of bird this is, Dora?" I asked.

"I have no particular interest in ornithology."

Of course not. I have had great trouble finding a conversational topic that interests Dora. No matter. That is a battle for another day.

"I suppose if he is going to nest on my head we should be on more familiar terms than a scientific name anyway. I think he looks like a Bartholomew. Bart the Bird. What do you think?"

Mrs. Vane sighed the sigh of the much put upon. I excel at causing Mama to sigh in just the same manner. Oddly I felt a sudden burst of affection for Mrs. Vane.

"I think you try to be provoking and it is not an attractive quality. My nephew cannot appreciate it."

"What do I not appreciate?" I am beginning to believe Mr. Darcy has some sort of supernatural sense of when he is being talked about. Either that or he eavesdrops. I turned to face him.

"Oh—arrgh" a strangled, undignified sound I never thought to hear from my husband escaped his lips. He took a step forward, raised his hand and then dropped it, the whole movement a quick awkward little spasm. I think he was going to attack the headdress. Truly I'm touched. I now know that if I was being assaulted by an exotic bird my husband cares enough to intervene.

"That is a very interesting . . . ."

Abomination, that is the word you are looking for, Mr. Darcy.

"Why . . . ."

Why the hell do you have a bird on your head? That is the question, isn't it?

"Fitzwilliam, what do you think of this headpiece for Elizabeth? Charming, isn't it?"

I tried to make my expression show how very much I did not like the bird as to give him permission to criticize it thoroughly.

"I do not like it. It is—."

Hideous. Please, say hideous. It really needs to be said.

"Ostentatious."

Mrs. Vane huffed in frustration. "She needs something to make her look matronly. People will not know she is married."

"Her ring is indication enough, I should think."

Darcy has not taken his eyes off me since he entered the room. Finally I have his full attention. Of course he is giving me a look of horror . . . . so, not precisely what I had been hoping for.

"I really do not think it would be wise of me wear it. What if it catches on? The trend would escalate from here and soon we would all be wearing geese on our heads. Think of the neck ache."

Darcy's lips quirked at my little jest. He did not even try to hide it. He smiled at me! In front of other people!

Mrs. Vane, completely unaware of the importance of the moment, said "The object of fashion is never to be the one with the goose on your head. One is meant to _begin_ trends not follow them through to their ridiculous conclusions."

"This bird will be the ridiculous conclusion to my social life." There I said it. I have tried not to insult her taste, but some things cannot be endured.

Darcy pressed his lips together firmly. I think he is holding back laughter. This gives me a strange sense of accomplishment.

"A statement piece must be a little ostentatious. You simply do not understand it. Here, let me try it on."

With the help of the milliner's assistant I am freed of Bartholomew. And now he is being pinned to Mrs. Vane's head. My day has improved substantially.

"See, it is striking when one knows how to wear it," said Mrs. Vane once the headdress was arranged.

Darcy, Georgiana, and I cocked our heads to the side and murmured a collective "Huh."

It actually looked quite good on her.

"You have the features for it, madame," said the milliner, glowing with the triumph of having his creation properly displayed.

Mrs. Vane grinned into the mirror. "Yes, I do."

"Why do you not get it for yourself, Aunt?" asked Darcy.

Mrs. Vane laughed hollowly as she removed the headpiece. "Where would I wear such a thing?"

Regretfully she handed over the bird to the assistant to be repackaged. Turning to me she said, "You are right, Elizabeth, it overwhelms you. A pity." If that comment was meant to be catty, the tone was all wrong. Her hopes of vicarious trend setting had been dashed and she was disappointed.

"I think we have everything we need," said Mrs. Vane. She gave the milliner a dismissive nod then she gestured impatiently to my lady's maid who rushed forward to gather the purchases. "I must check on my daughters. Miss Hopkins is incapable of keeping them under control for more than two hours together."

With that she hurried from the room. Flight, it would seem, is her only response to any mention of her self-inflicted captivity.

"We will take that as well," Darcy said to the milliner's assistant, indicating the box that contained the bird headdress. To me he said, "Perhaps my aunt will be inspired to leave the house if she has something striking to wear."

"Perhaps," I replied.

I could think of nothing to further to add. Now is the moment, Lizzy, stun him with your brilliant conversation before he runs away.

Darcy and I both glanced at Georgiana who was busying herself with adjusting the ribbon on the bonnet she had chosen, her single purchase of the day. She carefully placed it in its hatbox and closed the lid. Then, just as soon as the lid was secure, she removed it again, pulling out the bonnet and inspecting it carefully as if in those few seconds since she had put it away she had forgotten what it looked like and needed reminding. Clearly she was stalling. Perhaps she tarried for decorum's sake. Chaperoning me? Her brother? Too late for that.

Well, there was nothing I needed to say to Darcy I could not say in front of her.

"Soooo . . . how are you today?" Apparently there was nothing I needed to say to Darcy at all.

"Well."

Of course. One word answer. As to be expected in return for my lackluster gambit. Now, Lizzy, make some intelligent comment so we can begin a real conversation.

"Good." I am losing all ability to function as a social being. I am going Darcy.

"And you?" Darcy asked politely.

"Quite well," I replied with equal politeness.

"Good."

"Indeed." It is official. I've become dull.

Darcy cast his eyes around to the many boxes my maid was packing away. "Did you get everything you needed?"

We—that is to say Darcy, Dora, and I—have been invited to dine out three days hence and Mrs. Vane deemed all my gowns "too country" thus the sudden need to order a new wardrobe. I had assumed we would go to the shops like normal people, but, no, Mrs. Vane had arranged the shops to come to us. This convenience, along with our purchases must have cost Darcy an absolute fortune.

"I should hope so. I did try not to begger you."

Darcy put on a strained smile in response. Poor jest. People of good breeding do not talk about money. Even jokingly. He must be wondering what sort of ridiculous things I will say at Lady Truesdell's dinner party on Monday.

"Bingley visited while you were . . . occupied. He asked me to relay his greetings."

I nodded, a little disappointed. I had wanted to see Mr. Bingley.

"Is Mr. Bingley well?" Seriously, someone should just put me out of my misery. Of all the questions I might have asked about Mr. Bingley—of all the ways I might have yet saved this conversation . . . .

"Quite well."

"Good."

Darcy took a step away from me. "Well, I should—."

Madness overtook me. "No!" I shouted, seizing him bodily. Even Dora looked up questioningly at my sudden outburst.

Oh, wonderful. I am touching him again, this time without inebriation to blame for my forwardness. It really should not be a problem. He is my husband. And it is only his hands. Which I am still holding.

I dropped them.

"I mean, you should stay and . . . ." We can continue to have this inane conversation.

"Forgive me," Darcy said, still staring at his hands as if shocked to find I had not damaged them, "I have something I must attend to."

"Oh."

"Letters."

"Letters?"

"Yes, I write letters."

"With great accomplishment if Miss Bingley is any judge of the matter."

"I meant to say I have letters I must write."

"I have letters to write as well."

"Oh?"

"To my sisters. And mother. And father—and my aunt."

Oh God, Lizzy—perfect, just keep listing family members, that will make this conversation better.

"We should go attend to our letters—separately, of course."

"Yes, awkward business that would be co-authoring letters. Imagine," I said. And then I laughed. A fakish, trilling sort of laugh. It was terrible. It was probably the sound Bartholomew made before the milliner had stuffed him.

"Yes," said Darcy. Then he fake-chortled, too. It was not so horrible of a sound as mine had been but there was something sadder about it. I had broken him. I was willing to wager Darcy never feigned emotion for anyone's benefit. Especially for something so trivial. My awful conversational skills were causing him to betray his principles.

Finally, with only the barest nod to Georgiana and Dora and a furtive, half-crazed glance at me, he left. Such an exit might have be rude in other circumstances, but it was the only thing he could have done. It would have been cruel of him to stay a moment longer.

Georgiana's face was the picture of disbelief, her eyes shifted between me and the place her brother had just vacated as if she was still trying to process what had just taken place before her.

Dora, who had long since returned to her sketching, winced as she accidentally poked herself with her pencil. "Ouch. That was painful," she said.

"Very," said Georgiana most emphatically.


	9. A Surplus of Sir Sebastians

**9th December 1811**

 **Morning**

* * *

Sleet is such an indecisive form of precipitation. Be rain or be hail or be snow, but for goodness sake pick one. Doing all three at once is just outrageous. Exhibitionist, really. Like Mother Nature is all, "Look at me and my astounding ability to perform every obnoxious trick I know simultaneously—are you not impressed?"

Mother Nature is reminding me of my sister Mary at the moment.

That was a cruel thought. Truly, I long for the sight of Mary (just the sight, mind, not the auditory accompaniment). I even miss Lydia and Kitty and would welcome their companionship . . .provided they each took a turn carrying this bloody dog.

For the thousandth time, I hefted Sir Sebastian farther up into my arms. He keeps slipping and I was in danger of dropping him.

The terrible terrier groaned.

"It is all your own fault, you know," I reminded him.

I still do not understand how it came to this. We set out from Darcy House, Sir Sebastian securely tethered on a lead, the weather—though chilly and gray—was perfectly clear, and somehow, not an hour later, here I am carrying a lead-less Sir Sebby through the sleet and sludge.

I will take responsibility for my part in it. I did let him escape me. He saw a rabbit, he gave chase. Perfectly natural thing for a dog to do, of course. What was unnatural was the strength with which he ripped the lead from my hand and the speed with which he pursued the frightened creature. Even more unnatural? When he returned—when he finally bloody deigned to return—he returned sans lead.

I had been panicked thinking he might accidentally hang himself with the lead all the while I should have been panicked thinking about the possibility of carrying a two stone dog all the way home. A _reeking_ two stone dog. The foulness of his odor has surpassed the realm of the merely olfactory and has invaded the kingdoms of the neighboring senses. Visible fumes rise up from his filthy pelt. And, though I have tried to hold my breath, I still have an unpleasant taste in my mouth—sweaty and sour and equine.

Apparently sometime during his little adventure Sir Sebastian rolled in horse manure. Very fresh horse manure. Worse still, I think he ate some, for his stomach is stretched tight as a drum and he keeps groaning pitiably. I could put him down but then he would run off and I would be out here in the wet for another hour calling for him.

I think I have more than made amends at this point. I volunteered to walk Sir Seb hoping Darcy, who had until today been walking the dog daily since his arrival, would forgive me for my latest wrongdoing.

Yes, I've done a bad thing. Again.

It is really not so terrible. Just a minor little misstep and not at all in itself wrong. I am perfectly within my rights to invite my elder sister to stay with me. If Darcy had read the letter my mother sent me he would understand having Jane to stay with us is a small concession to Mama's very large list of demands. Had I not invited Jane, Mama would have descended upon us, all of my sisters in tow, demanding I find suitors for each of them.

And it is only Jane. How can he have an objection to Jane? He cannot. His anger at my newest sin is ridiculous.

Although, if I am being truthful, perhaps it is not so much my inviting Jane that offends him as the manner in which he came to know about her impending arrival. I knew even as I wrote the reply to Mama that I should ask his permission before making the invitation, but I did not want to give him the opportunity to say no (and, really, what is one more guest?). I know, I know, I am awful. And then I made it worse.

Of course I should have told him directly after I posted the letter. I excused my cowardliness by the fact he was hardly ever in the house to be told. However, yesterday we attended church together and I certainly could have told him on the carriage ride to or from. But I did not.

Because . . . because I was waiting for the right moment and that moment came that same afternoon when Mr. Bingley called. Mr. Bingley, as one might expect, inquired after Jane's health and asked me to include his well-wishings in my next letter to her. The delighted smile on Bingley's face when I said, "Oh, but you will not need me to do so. You can tell her yourself when she arrives on the twelfth," was of such contagious radiance I felt warmed by his delirious happiness and I am sure Mr. Darcy would have felt it too if he had not been so engrossed in plotting my death.

Perhaps not my death but at the very least he was thinking of sending me off to some remote part of Scotland or if he lacks a Scottish hunting lodge locking me up in the attic of Pemberley never to be heard from again. Whatever he was thinking it was something ominous. I could tell by the glare.

I have mentioned before how potent his Glare of Doom is, this was his most devastating glare yet. If it were possible to could kill with a glare, everyone in London would be dead. From this one particular glare, not just because Darcy goes around making his bored/irritated/tired/contemptuous/ haughty face all the time at everyone he meets. Bored/Irritated/Tired/Contemptuous/Haughty Face is a paper-cut compared to the beheading-with-a-dull-axe-by-an-inebriated-executioner that was this glare. This was not simply a murderous glare, it was a Plague Glare. A Glare of Mass Destruction. Even Mr. Bingley, who has tolerated Darcy for however many years and therefore must have some immunity by now, audibly winced when he saw it.

I felt the urge to play innocent. If I had fewer scruples (and perhaps more wiles) I might have batted my eyelashes, stared blankly back at Darcy as though I had all the intellectual prowess of a sheep and said, "Oh, you not recall that I told you? I must have told you. I did not? Oh!" (pause for an irritating, high-pitched giggle), "How thoughtless I am! I _meant_ to tell you. You simply _must_ forgive me." You see, I know how a lady might get away with any transgression if she is willing to paint herself as an imbecile.

But I could not bring myself to do it. I did not think I could convincingly counterfeit such stupidity and if I should have successfully portrayed it I would have resented Mr. Darcy for believing it. I do not think Mr. Darcy would tolerate me bleating such nonsense anyway. Even if he believed me to be as lacking in mental faculties as the most idiotic of bovid, he would probably have just announced a hankering for mutton in that dry, biting manner of his.

So instead of dissembling I said, "I ought to have told you before now."

He rolled his eyes. I felt instantly less contrite.

"Told me—yes—at the very least."

I knew what he meant. I ought to have _asked_.

Yet he never asked me before he agreed to have me chaperon Dora and that is a far greater commitment than having Jane to stay. The most inconvenience Jane could cause him is he might have to greet her should they meet in the hall. Which knowing Darcy he might actually consider that an inconvenience, but even he must recognize so minor a discomfort is worth enduring for the happiness of his friend.

And Mr. Bingley was very pleased with the prospect of seeing Jane. He made a great show of his pleasure, babbling on in a lovesick manner about Jane's many attractions. If she had been in the room I would have thought his speech a lead up to a proposal it was so effusive in its praise, but, as it was, I think he was simply fearful that Darcy and I were about to engage in an argument and was just saying the first thing that came to his mind to fill the tense silence.

Darcy did not dare scold me in front of his friend and accepted the news as cheerfully as could be expected. In other words, not at all cheerfully, but he did not demand I write back to Jane at once uninviting her which was really the best I could hope for, and was, of course, if I am being honest with myself, the object of telling him with Mr. Bingley in the room. Manipulative, I know. Bad Lizzy. Very bad Lizzy.

But now I have more than done my penance by carrying this wriggling, yapping, excrement-covered beast. If Darcy could see me now he would forgive me at once. Then order me a bath.

"We could both do with a bath, Sir Seb."

The canine growled in response.

"You do not like that word I take it? Well, too bad. You are getting a bath. Even if I have to give you one myself because all the maids are frightened of you."

I understand now why Margaret demanded only the family walk Sir Sebastian. At the time I thought her instructions pure whimsy, but seeing how easily he slipped his lead . . . .On that front I am no more capable than a servant it would seem. Darcy, however has had no such trouble with him, or if he has he has not admitted to it.

"Does Darcy know how to handle you?"

Sir Seb looked up at me as though he found the question preposterous.

"I suppose the better question is: do you know how to handle him?"

The dog yipped which I decided to take as an affirmation.

"I wish I knew. I have no talent for staying on the lead either."

Sir Sebastian it would seem had had enough of my wearying conversation, he nipped my hand rather hard causing me to drop him.

* * *

 **Twenty minutes later**

I have lost the bloody dog again.

I really must watch my 'bloodies' lest they escape my mind and come out my mouth. That would be a wonderful thing to add to my list of failings: curses like a mule driver. I suppose I shouldn't impinge upon the honor of all mule drivers, but it was a mule driver who first introduced me to the word and I have loved it ever since that first, "Get out of the bloody way."

Though I suppose using obscenities would hardly be a failing at all compared to LOSING THE BLOODY DOG. Seriously, Lizzy, focus on the matter at hand. I must find the bloody dog before he runs out in front of a bloody mule team and becomes a bloody stain on the cobbles.

"Sir Sebastian!" I don't know why I bother. I have been calling his name from the moment I dropped him and he has yet to return. My throat is raw. Bl—ruddy raw.

Suddenly a gentleman appeared on the path before me. Neither his high spirits nor good looks seemed to be dampened by the wet weather, for he was smiling charmingly at me as if he were elated to see me even though I had not the slightest idea who he was.

"Ha, I have found you at last," he declared. Turning around he called down the path, "Over here, Farthingham, I have found my sprite."

I stood there, baffled as yet another man appeared, this one slightly less handsome and considerably less affable. "Wonderful, now may we return to our purpose," he said clearly unimpressed with his companion's discovery.

The smiling man ignored him returning his attention to me, "Why have you been calling for me, madam?"

"I haven't been calling for you."

"You most certainly have. Farthingham thought I was running mad, hearing wood sprites calling my name. But I have found you and you are quite real, though just as enchanting as any fae I assure you."

Finally I understood. "You are Sir Sebastian."

The gentleman bowed. "Sir Sebastian Seymour, at your service, madam."

"I'm sorry, I was looking for Sir Sebastian Shivershanks," I said stupidly.

"Who on earth is he?" asked the human Sir Sebastian clearly miffed at having found he was not the sole of bearer of his namesake.

"He is a dog."

The previously disgruntled Farthingham burst into laughter.

"A dog?" repeated Sir Sebastian, with credulity bordering on outrage. Farthingham laughed all the harder.

"Yes, I have lost him. He is a terrier mixture, light brown and white, docked tail. If you call out 'Sir Sebastian' and he runs determinedly in the opposite direction you can be certain it is he, though I haven't the slightest clue as to why I am describing him as he is most likely the only dog you are likely to come across as I am certainly the only fool who would be walking a dog in such weather."

"I think we've just been called fools," said Sir Sebastian to his friend.

"Not a new experience for you, I'm sure," replied Farthingham.

"I believe I only called those walking dogs fools. I am sure it is perfect weather for whatever you are doing. What are you doing?" They were both carrying what looked like opera glasses a fact I had up till now ignored there being so many other remarkable things about this situation.

Seeing my gaze Sir Sebastian Seymour held up the instrument he was carrying. "With these you mean? Bird watching."

"Bird watching?"

"The object is to watch birds in their natural surroundings," explained Farthingham patronizingly.

Oddly, I had surmised that much for myself.

"I have yet to comprehend if he is intentionally obtuse and enjoys being a condescending jackass or if he really has no understanding of basic human interaction. Yes, we are watching birds. In this weather. It was his idea," said Sir Sebastian.

"If we waited for pleasant weather we would be waiting until April."

"Which I would have no objection to."

"You are not serious in your study of birds, then, Sir Sebastian?" I asked.

"Alas no, I am merely a dilettante. Farthingham is the true natural historian. I have not properly introduced him, this is the Honorable Mr. Thomas Farthingham although a more accurate epithet might be the Peevish Mr. Farthingham, or the Petulant Mr. Farthingham, or the Pretentious Mr. Farthingham he is the son of a viscount so he must be honorable."

"Your friendship must be of long standing," I observed.

"Oh, we go back years and years."

"It feels like centuries," added Farthingham.

"Now, wood sprite, you must tell us your name it is only fair, you know both of ours."

"I am Elizabeth Darcy." I said it. Without stumbling or a hint of hesitation.

Sir Sebastian laughed. "I know this dog for which you search. Or rather, I've heard of him. He is Mrs. Margaret Darcy's dog, correct? The one who deposited a large rat in Lady Jersey's lap at a dinner party and got Mrs. Darcy permanently excluded from Almack's."

"Yes, he is Margaret Darcy's dog. I have not heard that story, but it sounds like Sir Seb."

"I did not realize we shared a name, but I have heard so much about this dog. He is a legend. I must meet him." Sir Sebastian laughed again, full bellied like a gleeful child.

Recovering himself he said, "And I am glad to meet you, Miss Darcy. My aunt tried to persuade me to come to her dinner party tonight by tempting me with rumors of your beauty, but I thought it was exaggeration as rumors often are, now I am rather regretting declining the invitation."

I stammered knowing neither how to reply to his bold flirtation nor how to correct his mistake.

Misreading my expression he said, "Oh, sorry, of course you do not know, my aunt is Lady Truesdell. I believe you are to dine with her this evening. She has been crowing about having the elusive Miss Darcy the scandalous Mrs. Darcy at her party."

"Forgive me, I should have been clearer when I introduced myself. I am _Mrs_. Darcy. The new Mrs. Darcy. The scandalous Mrs. Darcy," I said at last.

Farthingham laughed, he was a much sunnier character than I had initially thought. Sir Sebastian looked stricken. "No, you must forgive me. I should never have called you—"

"I will not allow you to apologize, Sir Sebastian, scandalous is the most exciting thing I have ever been called and you cannot take it away from me now," I said playfully.

"You are not what I expected," he replied, his manner still serious.

"Sir Sebastian, what did I just say about taking it away?"

"I am not usually such a booby, I generally leave such displays of social incompetence to Farthingham."

"Omitting you, Seb, I think it unlikely for us to see any red-footed boobies, but other birds might be within our reach should we choose to seek them out."

"We must find Mrs. Darcy's dog first and then walk her home."

"Must we?"

"Yes, she is a lady in distress, we must give her aid and protection. That is what gentlemen do."

"Is it really?"

Sir Sebastian ignored his friend and began calling for Sir Sebastian. "It is odd to be shouting one's own name," he said.

I had feared Sir Sebastian the Dog would try my new friends' patience and kindness by remaining evasive, but after only a few minutes he wandered up to Sir Sebastian the Man with a quizzical expression that said, "You, sir, why are you calling me? We are not acquainted."

"Does he usually smell so, er, robust?" Sir Sebastian asked. He had scoped up the naughty dog before I could warn him about his odor.

"I am sorry. Here, I will carry him," I said.

"No, I am showing Farthingham how to be a gentleman. Now, which way to your home?"

"This way . . . I think." I had got so turned around looking for the bloody dog I was unsure of where we were. Somewhere in Hyde Park that was the best I could guess.

"Have you considered a lead?" asked Farthingham, who was looking absolutely jovial as he watched Sir Sebastian carry the stinking dog.

"He slipped it," I replied. "He is a very intelligent dog."

"But not obedient. Now, my Sir Sebastian, he is quite the reverse."

"Would you like to carry the dog, Farthingham?" threatened Sir Sebastian.

"No, this is your chance to impress the lady. I shall let you have it."

But Mr. Farthingham did eventually take a turn carrying the dog. It was rather a long walk back to Darcy House but Sir Sebastian keep up his charming banter making it go all the quicker. Sir Sebastian the gentleman that is. The dog, realizing he was not going on a new and exciting adventure, rather he was being returned to his confinement, growled all the way.

* * *

 **Evening**

Dinner went splendidly, all things considered. Lady Truesdell, far from the gossip monger I feared she might be, was a genuine and kind hostess. In addition to being Sir Sebastian's aunt, it would seem she is also Darcy's mother's cousin, thus why she so kindly offered to invite an unacquainted lady of scandalous reputation to her dinner party. It might have been helpful if Darcy had explained the family connection so I would not have appeared so surprised when Lady Truesdell informed me of it, but then he would have actually had to communicate with me which of course is unbearable to him.

When we arrived at the party Darcy underwent a miraculous transformation into a social human being capable of doing something other than staring at people with Bored/Irritated/Tired/Contemptuous/Haughty Face. I wish I could have heard what he was saying because he appeared to be speaking and his dinner companions appeared to find him amusing.

I was delighted to find Sir Sebastian seated next to me though he had said earlier he had declined the invitation. Dora was seated on his right. She did not undergo a miraculous transformation, though she did try, as she had promised me before dinner, to listen to what other people were saying and converse with them on a topic they were interested in discussing.

She made it nearly three minutes before mentioning beetles. I was so proud of her for I could tell those three minutes had been a great struggle. The older gentleman on her right, who had apparently been someone important in the East India Company and had fully expected her to be impressed, looked a bit taken aback at first, clearly thinking she would wish to discuss his adventures in the East, but soon he settled in to listening to her lecture about tropical insects with the sort of dreamy expression men tend to get around a stunningly beautiful woman.

I have neglected to say that Dora is extraordinarily beautiful. She has the dark, Darcy hair and the aristocratic features, though hers are less fearsome and her nose diverges from the Darcy pattern completely and is adorably upturned. She is as pretty as Jane which is fortunate for she has no conversation. Conversation in a pretty woman is unnecessary at least where men are concerned, for they are too distracted to listen anyway. I am glad to be merely tolerable for there is a chance men actually hear what I say. Unless they are Mr. Darcy then they just run from the room.

After dinner we all played at cards. Dora and I were at a table with Sir Sebastian and Mr. Farthingham. They both teased her relentlessly about her preference for entomology over ornithology and I do think she enjoyed their attention even if she was a little confused by it.

Darcy glared at me on the entire carriage ride home. I do not know what I have done to offend him now but I could see his eyes glinting menacingly by the light of the street lamps. Horrid man. After observing him with Henrietta and Belinda I had almost liked him but if he is going to be angry with me again after we have had a perfectly pleasant evening I do not know what to make of him other than to think him horrid.

A knock sounded at the door. The adjoining door. The Door.

I had been pacing my bedchamber restlessly as I am wont to do when I need to think and cannot go for a proper walk. I had probably been humming tunelessly as well. Perhaps Darcy has come to scold me.

I bid him to enter.

"May I speak with you?" he asked, hovering in the doorway. I could see he was going to speak to me no matter what my reply was. He had certainly come to scold me.

"Of course," I said as he entered the room. He was silent for an uncomfortable while, just standing there, glowering and towering impressively in his dressing gown.

"I suppose you expect me to apologize," I said when I had had enough. I was ready to get the scold over with.

"Are you going to?" he asked with a hint of a smile. His amusement made me more irate than his severity had."

"No, in fact I am not. I should have told you about Jane visiting—I should have _asked_ I suppose. But there are plenty of things you might have asked me as well. Like if I wanted to be Dora's chaperon for instance. I realize your great aunt put you in an uncomfortable position, but you might have at least _pretended_ to consider my desires on the subject.

"Not that I mind Dora. I quite like her, really, but it is no simple task being chaperon to someone like her, though I think I did rather well with it tonight and if you had any sense of fairness you would praise me for that rather than scolding me for Jane. Or better yet offer conversation rather than either praise or scolding, for I am not a dog and you are not my master." Much to my shame I was babbling rather agitatedly. Mr. Darcy has that affect on me.

Annoyingly Darcy remained completely impassive. "It is not your sister of whom I wished to speak, though I did not appreciate your use of Bingley. That sort of cunning is beneath you. I cannot think my ire is so very frightening to you that you feel you need to have someone present to protect you from it."

"It is not at all frightening. I find it quite amusing actually," I said, with as much pluck as I could muster.

"That explains much," he said darkly. Ha, I had irritated him. Good.

"If you did not come to scold me about Jane what did you wish to discuss?"

"Your attention to Sir Sebastian tonight was unseemly."

My shock at his declaration was such that I gasped. "Are you referring to the gentleman or the dog?" I had given the dog a good long pat when we returned home. Darcy surely was alluding to that, because he could not possibly be suggesting I had been inappropriately attentive to Sir Sebastian Seymour.

"You know very well I am referring to the gentleman."

"I do not know it. I spoke to him often, of course. He sat next to me at dinner. He was my whist partner! I realize you might think it perfectly permissible to remain silent even at a party, but most people find it uncomfortable."

"Your attention was more than mere politeness. You were flirting with him. Your reputation cannot bear even slight indiscretions such as that."

"Flirting with him! You think I was flirting with him?"

"I know you were."

"I did no such thing. I am perhaps a little more playful than some ladies—"

"I know of your teasing nature this was more than that—."

"It was not!"

"I see from your surprise that it was not intentional, however I noticed your flirtation—as did others. In the future I urge you to be more circumspect."

"People are reading too much into an innocent situation. Sir Sebastian is just gregarious—like Mr. Bingley, you do not have any objections to me speaking to Mr. Bingley, do you?

"Sir Sebastian is quite a bit less benign than Bingley."

I recognized the truth of his statement immediately. I had had a nagging feeling ever since I met Sir Sebastian Seymour this morning. He was both too flattering and too familiar. As Mr. Wickham had been. But not every genial young man was a Mr. Wickham, surely.

"Sir Sebastian is undeniably an outrageous flirt, but he is well aware I am married. It is all harmless."

"I would argue the fact that you are married—which I am relieved to find you remember—is what makes it not at all harmless. People will already be inclined to think the worst of you, making a display of yourself by flirting with a man with a reputation for pursuing married ladies who has been in more than one duel as a result of his folly, will ensure you will never be accepted by good society."

"Sir Sebastian has a reputation," I murmured not really intending Darcy to hear.

"Yes. Lady Trusdell should not have invited him, but I believe she has a soft spot for him," sounding more than a little resentful he added, "Most ladies do it would seem."

"But he watches birds . . . how could he partake in duels?" I whispered nonsensically. I do not know why I found this information so shocking. Perhaps because it confirmed, once again, I was not the good judge of character I had thought.

"I do not think the enjoyment of bird watching precludes someone from dueling, Elizabeth," he said gently.

I must have appeared even more affected by his tidings than I felt, because he was looking at me sort of pityingly. He stepped closer to me and took both my hands in his.

Well, this is strange. I think it was meant as comforting gesture. But while his touch does not bring discomfort exactly, it is not making me feel at all soothed. At initial contact I felt the same reaction I have experienced the other times when I had touched him, it feels like the momentary terror a sudden stumble brings before the correction when one is certain one will fall. Now having had time to adjust to the sensation it just feels odd.

Perhaps Mr. Darcy is feels the same, he is certainly looking at me rather oddly.

"I should not have framed this conversation as a critique of your behavior."

Ah, I see. Darcy looks odd when he admits he is wrong. Not something he is used to doing, I suppose.

"Well . . . I should not have acted so familiar with Sir Sebastian . . . it was just that he was so helpful to me this morning . . . ." I trailed off having misplaced my thought.

Darcy is still looking at me very oddly. And it seems to me it is not the sort of oddness of one who is doing something that makes them uncomfortable, rather it is the oddness of one who has found a delicious piece of cake and intends to eat every crumb. If I was cake his expression would not be odd as that is a perfectly reasonable intention to have towards cake, but I am not cake.

And he is not just looking at me, he is staring specifically at my mouth. Why on earth is he staring like that? He has looked at me like this before, on the night of the ripped bodice—the night my life as the carefree Elizabeth Bennet came to an abrupt and tragic end.

At the time, I had thought he was going to kiss me. Why a man would kiss a woman he was arguing with, a woman he found only tolerable, I could not think, but now . . . well, I still can not explain why he would kiss me.

But Mr. Darcy is going to kiss me.


	10. About Last Night

**Dear Long-suffering Readers,**

 **Would you believe when I ended the last chapter on a cliff I had intended to have the next chapter posted within three days? Would you also believe that at one point I had planned to have this entire story done by the end of February. Of 2019, I mean. Clearly I am insanely optimistic.**

 **I just wanted you to know I haven't been gleefully hoarding a finished chapter just to make you wait. I am not a super villain. I'm just a girl with poor time management skills.**

 **Thank you for your understanding and patience.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **DR**

* * *

 **10th December 1811**

 **Afternoon**

"Elizabeth, there is something I need to speak with you about."

Oh, no. I knew this was coming. Rebecca Darcy had called, despite somehow being even more spherical than she had been just a few days ago, and though she has been exceedingly friendly (she had nervously inquired after my health several times now) I know this is not just a friendly call. She is here for a purpose. A mortifying purpose.

"My nephew has asked me to speak to you because he fears you may have some . . . misapprehensions concerning . . . concerning the . . . er . . . relations between a man and a woman. The procreative relations."

Oh, bloody no.

"Rebecca, please." Please, just kill me now. "I know how babies are made."

She looked up hopefully from her tea cup to which she had addressed her entire soliloquy. "You do?"

"Yes, my mama spoke to me before the wedding. She made everything terribly clear." Actually Mama befuddled the subject nicely, but fortunately I had already had a good understanding of process. Except for preface, but I think after last night I am much better informed on that subject.

"Oh . . . wonderful." Rebecca took a sip of tea. Then another. A clock ticked loudly in the background. I waited. She would have to ask. Human nature demanded it.

"Not to pry. . . ." she began, letting the sentence trail off expectantly.

I could not fault her curiosity, it was only natural for her to wonder what had inspired Darcy to ask her to have what must be the most awkward conversation in the world.

A conversation that could only become more mortifying as it continued, but I had to tell someone. At some point Darcy would have to know. And I did not want to be the one to tell him. Perhaps his Uncle James could speak to him.

"The problem is not my understanding," I reiterated, "The problem is with him."

"With Fitzwilliam?"

I nodded.

"Did he do something you found unpleasant?"

Instantly my mind revisited all the very pleasant things Darcy had done. With his mouth. And his tongue. And his hands—oh, his hands. That first kiss, coyly tentative perfection which led to a caress, a deeper kiss, and somehow we ended up on my bed.

And then the terrible revelation. At which point I went fleeing to my dressing room and barred the door. Had Darcy told his aunt about that? Of course he had. It was perhaps a little unreasonable of me to have refused to explain my sudden alteration. But how could I explain?

"No, it is nothing he did," I replied. I was addressing my tea cup now. "He . . . Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam has a . . . deformity."

"Deformity? What do you mean?"

After a nervous clearing of my throat I said, "His weaponry is shockingly overlarge."

"And by weaponry you mean his—," she said with a downward glace to her lap.

Again I nodded.

Rebecca let out a bark of laughter she attempted to disguise as a cough. "Forgive me, I am not laughing at you." At which point she broke down and laughed at me in earnest for some time.

Once she had recovered from her mirth she said, "I think every new wife when she first beholds her husband's weapon is a little overwhelmed. However I am sure you will find the sword fits the sheath quite nicely."

I shook my head vigorously. "I have seen nude men depicted in art, Darcy's . . . sword is enormous by comparison."

Rebecca began giggling anew. "I am truly sorry, I do not mean to laugh. Most unkind of me—and laughing is such a dangerous activity when one is this far along with child, one fears at any moment one might accidentally . . . leak a little. It happened only yesterday. A sudden sneeze—quite mortifying—fortunately I was at home. I am always at home now. . . .Though if I am going to be as incontinent as a puppy, I suppose it is for the best," she sighed with great feeling then continued "Now, you see, I have revealed to you my own embarrassment, so we are equal. You may laugh at me if you wish."

I had no wish to. My own mortification was such that I was certain never to laugh at the embarrassments of anyone else for as long as I lived.

"As to art," Rebecca said, "it is not generally done to depict the male organ . . . prepared for battle. It grows, you understand? It is far less intimidating in the flaccid state. A little humorous actually, but do not mention it to them. Men are so very sensitive about that for some reason.

"So you see, dear, I am sure Fitzwilliam's weaponry is perfectly proportional and you will find him to be a wonderful—you will find the experience to be perfectly—it will all be fine, dear."

I tried to feel reassured, but could not. She had not seen it after all. Though of course it was very possible I had overreacted. I have the tendency to do that around Mr. Darcy. And perhaps my shock at finding myself suddenly presented with a nude man might have been lessened if I had not at that same moment realized I had never really had a proper conversation with said nude man. You know, the sort of conversation that did not end in shouting or an awkward and disingenuous "There is something I must attend to."

I do not know his favorite author. Nor his favorite composer. Or if he likes chocolate. For goodness sake, the man may not like chocolate! Or he might be one of those peculiar persons who take it unsweetened. It is quite possible. I have observed, with great horror, that he takes both his coffee and tea black.

And it may not stop there. He could hate daisies. Or sunshine. Or kittens. Last night I might have been dallying with a black-hearted fiend who hates kittens. Well, he probably likes kittens. He is good with animals. Or Sir Sebastian at least. The dog, that is.

And he is kind to Henrietta and Belinda; gentlemen do not often have much patience for children. Though, really, should I have to give him so much credit for basic human decency? It is not as if it is all that difficult to be kind to children and animals.

Though he is also kind to Mrs. Vane and that is no easy feat.

Yet he is also haughty and sometimes rude and his weaponry is ridiculously overlarge. Perhaps. I must admit I cannot be certain it _is_ out of the ordinary. I am no expert in weaponry. Still, it would be like him to be inconvenient like that.

And if we would have kept at it last night it would have led to _me_ being nude. And things would have happened. Procreative things. And I couldn't do that. Just couldn't. Not with a possible kitten hater.

Well, no matter the reason for my change of mind I knew I had no wish to continue speaking on this topic with Rebecca. Seizing the opportunity to put this discussion to an end I said, "Thank you for speaking to me, I am most reassured" I said far too formally. I had not known Rebecca long but she was not the sort of person one spoke to with such ceremony.

"You would say anything to get me to stop talking about this, wouldn't you?"

" _Oh, yes_ ," I agreed emphatically. We both turned, meeting each others eyes properly for the first time since the awkward conversation began, and promptly burst out laughing.

"You know," she said in that poor-dear-you-really-are-clueless tone she had been using throughout this uncomfortable business, "I feel I should tell you—"

She was going to talk about it again. Why would she talk about it again? Why? Why? WHYYYYY?!

"—larger is considered preferable."

Madness. Utter madness.

"You find that shocking now, but soon you will understand what I mean. Good swordsmanship is most important, of course, but ample size is certainly—" She broke off frustratingly and began giggling once more.

"What are you ladies discussing with such merriment?" James Darcy demanded genially as he entered the drawing room. My husband was at his uncle's heels, his expression uncommunicative, his eyes determined to avoid mine.

I answered with the first thing that came to my head. "Fencing."

Rebecca—curse her—giggled harder still.

"Fencing," James repeated disbelievingly, "My wife bids me bring her here, says she is in desperate need of female companionship, tells me I cannot possibly converse with her on the subjects she wishes to discuss. So I bring her here thinking she plans to talk about ribbons and lace and all other manner of frippery and you tell me you are discussing fencing."

"Indeed, we are," I said as nonchalantly as possible. Rebecca, still giggling, nodded in agreement.

James narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He knew some manner of private joke was afoot and he did not like to be left out of it.

"And is my new niece an expert on fencing?" James asked mischievously.

"Not at all," I replied, "Before you arrived I had just made a remark about what a great pity it is ladies are not permitted to learn the sport."

James nudged his nephew. His face alight with puckish intent, he said, "You hear that, Will? Your wife wishes to learn to fence."

Darcy gave his uncle the sort of haughty glare I had thought he reserved for particularly heinous crimes of commonness (such as addressing him whilst impecunious and insufficiently well connected). James Darcy was not the sort to be cowed by any unspoken admonishment (or probably spoken admonishment) however, he nudged Darcy once more and said, "You are not so much a stickler you would not teach her a teach her a few maneuvers in privacy," to me he added, "You will find him a most satisfactory instructor I am sure—his thrust is a thing of beauty."

Rebecca, who with great struggle had calmed herself, lost control once again. She let loose a most unladylike bark of laughter then her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes went wide in alarm, all all gaiety abandoned.

"What is it? Is it the baby?" asked James anxiously.

"The baby is fine. Everything is fine. We just need to leave. Immediately," Rebecca said. She stood, gathering her skirts behind her as if trying to hide her bottom.

"So lovely to see you—must do again—must be going now _,"_ she said as she began backing out of the room as if Darcy and I were royalty.

Darcy stepped forward as if to assist her.

"NO! I beg of you—stay right there! _Right there_. We can show ourselves out."

By this point her cheeks were as red as her hair and I realized at last why she was leaving so suddenly. So had James. To his credit he tried to keep his countenance, but he was shaking with silent laughter.

"It is not at all amusing, James," said Rebecca, as she smacked him with her reticule. Despite this abuse, he dutifully guided her from the room and did not allow his expression to show even a hint of amusement even as he performed an elaborate low bow to us before quitting the room.

Darcy appeared bewildered and concerned. "Perhaps I should—" he began, making as if to follow his aunt and uncle.

"No!" I shouted with almost as much ferocity as Rebecca had, "You would only upset her. She will be fine. It is a . . . feminine difficulty."

The words "feminine difficulty" when spoken to my father were always guaranteed to halt all interest in whatever inquiry he had made. Darcy still seemed confused and I feared he might press the point, however, after a moment's hesitation, he sat down. Not in the chair Rebecca had just vacated—whose upholstery appeared perfectly free of accidental leakage, but perhaps could still benefit from the attention of a servant—but on the divan across from me.

"I hope she is well. I sent her a missive earlier but I had not meant for her to come here. I had thought to arrange a time for us to visit," said my husband who was still not meeting my eye.

"She wanted to get out of the house. I do not think she is taking the confinement well."

Silence fell. Or not silence, really, there was still the ticking of that unnaturally loud clock. Or perhaps it is two clocks. I think I heard a second tick just a little out of time. I glanced about, carefully not looking at Mr. Darcy since he seemed so desirous of avoiding my notice.

My goodness, there are four clocks in this room alone! What on earth does one need four clocks for? I suppose so guests do not have to turn their head to check the time.

" _Elizabeth_."

Darcy is looking at me—yes, directly at me—with the sort of exasperated expression one wears when one has been speaking for awhile and the other person is obviously not marking one in the least.

"I'm sorry, I was distracted by the clocks."

"The clocks?"

"Yes. There are so many of them. The ticking—it is really overwhelmingly loud, isn't it?"

Darcy cast his eyes around the room, clearly performing a clock census. He remained perfectly stoic as he did so, not at all as one would expect a person who has just discovered he is surrounded by an army of inharmoniously ticking mechanical creatures to behave. Especially a person who found my accidental tuneless humming so irritating.

His gaze returned to me. "We need to talk about last night."

"It is fortunate the duties on clocks were repealed. Otherwise the tax on this room alone would be exorbitant," I observed pretending I had not heard him.

"Did Rebecca have time to speak with you? I tried to keep my uncle from the room—."

"It would have been two pounds I think—perhaps not much to you, but it could add up quickly."

"What?" asked a positively confused Mr. Darcy.

"The tax on clocks. There was a tax on clocks for a short while, do you remember?"

"Vaguely," he replied with an amused/bemused expression. Why he should be looking at me like that I do not know. He is the one trying to have a completely irrelevant conversation whilst I am giving him fascinating information about taxes. And clocks. You would think a person with such an obsessive number of clocks would be more interested.

"Papa always jokes about it. He says 'Now that Parliament has tried to tax time, what will they tax next? Laughter? Flatulence?'."

I cannot believe I just said flatulence in front of Darcy. I cannot believe I have said any of the things I have said in the last minute.

"Indeed."

He can make haughty face and say, "Indeed" in that solemn, superior tone all he wants—I've seen him naked. Not that he has anything to be ashamed of. He was well worth seeing . . . if you discount his seemingly-overlarge-but-perhaps-perfectly-proportional weaponry. But still. Once you have seen someone naked any future displays of gravitas by said person will be somewhat diminished in effect.

"I have not been drinking. Alcohol, I mean. I have had tea. Tea! Do you want tea? Should I call for some more?" I asked, surging to my feet.

Darcy stood. "I have no wish for tea."

"No tea?" I asked disbelievingly. He surely wanted tea. One cannot carry on an uncomfortable conversation without a tea cup to stare into.

I sat back down. Darcy followed suit. I picked up my empty cup and stared into it. Darcy stared at me.

"I do not drink as a rule. Liquor, that is. I thought you should know. Given what happened on our wedding night and the way I am speaking now you could not be blamed for thinking I frequently overindulge in drink. I am not one of those sort of ladies. You do not have to worry about that. Though perhaps now you simply think I am mad."

"I think you neither mad nor inebriated. I understand you are discomposed, however I think we must speak—"

"About last night," I said interrupting him, "It was all just a small misunderstanding and I am sorry. I overreacted."

"Might you enlighten me as to the source of this misunderstanding?" Darcy pressed.

"Does it matter?"

"It is rather disconcerting when one's wife runs screaming from the room after one has disrobed. It is difficult not to feel insecure."

"I did not scream."

"I am perhaps exaggerating. A little."

"My objection was not your person. Everything was quite pleasing and exactly as it should be."

"Thank you?" said Darcy clearly unsure if he should take my words as a compliment.

"Except the one thing."

"Which thing?"

"It was a misunderstanding on my part apparently. Probably."

Having mentioned it, I could not stop looking at it. Well not _it_ precisely. He was fully clothed I could not see it. But in the general area. Following my gaze, he inspected the his breeches as if searching for stains. Finding no blemish he returned his eyes questioningly to mine.

"What was the misunderstanding, Elizabeth?" he asked with growing impatience.

"I thought your weaponry enormously over-sized."

"Weaponry?" Darcy asked, his expression perplexed. Then he glanced from my reddening visage down to his lap, comprehension dawning.

"But I have discussed it with Rebecca and she has told me it is more than likely ordinary."

"I see. . . . Too large," Darcy murmured. His expression morphed into a boyish grin. No one who spends so much time looking disapproving should be able to grin so winsomely. It simply isn't fair.

"Yes, but as I said, I understand now it is probably perfectly ordinary. It could be even smaller than average. I have nothing to compare it to after all."

His grin faltered. Ha. "I should not think it is smaller than average," he grumbled.

"It does not matter."

"Of course not," he agreed tetchily.

I missed the grin already. I do not know why I baited him. I simply cannot be good around Mr. Darcy.

The clocks were at it again. Tick, tick, tick. Tick, tick, tick.

"So that was why you fled—my enormous weapon?" Darcy asked breaking the silence.

Never mind what I said about the grin. I hate it. And his one-sided dimple. And that roguish glint in his eye too.

"Your possibly enormous, probably perfectly average weapon, yes," I answered primly.

"You might have explained your fears—"

"I wasn't afraid. I was disgusted. I thought you were deformed. You still might be, I do not know." Fine, that was unnecessarily cruel.

Darcy apparently accustomed to viciousness, ignored this comment. "You might have explained and we might have avoided confusion . . . and the involvement of my aunt."

"How could I have explained such a thing?"

"As you you have just now."

"I most certainly could not have. Not with you standing there _in the nude,_ " I said, whispering the final words as if someone might be spying on us. The clocks perhaps.

"I would have been happy to cover myself had you told me what was making you uncomfortable."

"The origin of my discomfort should have been obvious. It was absolutely unaccountable of you undressing like that. There had not been enough preface."

"Preface?"

"Preliminaries. Prelude. I was not yet properly . . . warmed."

"Ah."

"And then you disrobed, proud as anything, brandishing that thing."

"My enormous weapon?" he asked earnestly. Then his lips quirked.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

"I had additional preface planned. I thought the dressing gown would impede my movements and as I would eventually have to remove it in anyway it seem most expedient to do so before joining you in bed."

"How was I to know that?"

"You could not have known, of course. It was unconscionable of me to have made such a blunder. Next time I will provide you with a detailed program at least four hours prior any conjugal activity as to eliminate any possibility of misunderstanding."

"I do not appreciate your sarcasm."

"What a pity, as I always appreciate yours."

"Really?" I asked, my tone keen rather than sardonic as I had intended. His opinion should not matter so desperately to me and it does not, obviously, but it would be nice to know there is something about me Mr. Darcy likes.

"Almost always," he amended. There was a softness in his expression I could not account for. It seemed out of place on Darcy's face. At least when I was the object of his attention.

I broke from his gaze, feeling as I did so that it had been a cowardly act.

"Who is your favorite author?" I said before the incessant ticking could overcome me.

Darcy appeared understandably disconcerted by the suddenness of the question. "Why do you ask?" he deflected.

Because I would like to know you and I figured I better get some conversation in quick before you remembered something you had to attend to.

I shrugged nonchalantly. "Just curious."

"I do not think I have one."

"Certainly you do."

"There are so many capable authors from which to choose. My favorite varies depending on mood."

"Pick one."

"I cannot."

" _Try,_ " I urged. I had no idea why his answer had become so important to me, but it was and he was not going to get away without a reply.

"Who is your favorite, then?"

"Mine is—" Oh damn. Who is my favorite author? It really depends, doesn't it? On what I feel like at the time. I mimed taking a sip from my empty cup to buy time.

"Good tea?" Darcy asked, grinning tauntingly. Clearly he could see I was drinking imaginary tea. Wonderful.

"Delicious," I replied dabbing my mouth delicately with my napkin. If one is going to do something absurd one might as well go all out. "Now, what is your favorite color?"

"My favorite color?"

"Yes." And if you say you do not have one I will throw imaginary tea on you.

"I suppose it is gray."

"No, it isn't."

Of course it is. He would like gray. Neutral, detached, the perfect favorite color for a person who gives nothing away.

"It most certainly is."

"Fine, why do you like gray?"

Darcy pinched between his brows in frustration. I am getting to him. A few questions more and I will have him right where I want him. Now if I only knew what to do with him. . . .

"I do not know. Must one justify one's preferences?" he asked a little desperately.

I stared at him in reply. He may have his Judgmental Glare of Doom but I have a Penetrating Stare of Madness. It has made stronger men than Darcy come over all twitchy. Well, maybe it hasn't. The only man I have ever used it on was Papa whose constitution could not be said to be stronger than Darcy's. However I fully expected Darcy to have some manner of reaction. And outbreak of stammering, an eyelid tick, anything would do. Or he could just answer the question.

Finally he gave in, "I find gray calming. It makes no assertions and it asks nothing of you."

If that was a hint, Mr. Darcy, I am not taking it.

"Is there a reason for this inquisition?"

Goodness, I ask the man a few questions and he calls it an inquisition. Has there been any torture (other than the Stare of Madness)? No. Is anyone likely to be burned as a heretic as the result of this questioning? Probably not.

I recognized it would be better to have a conversation rather than this interrogation (I will concede it is an interrogation, but not an inquisition—that is just hyperbolic). However conversations are reciprocal. I already know he does not like me (though that apparently this does not stop him from disrobing in my presence). I have no wish to reveal anything further about myself so he can dislike me even more.

All I want him to do is answer my queries whilst giving him no information about myself, why is that so unreasonable?

"Al I know about you is that you do not smoke," I replied.

"How do you know I do not smoke?" he asked, alarmed. One would think I had discovered his darkest secret.

"When I went into your eerie study to steal your brandy I noticed the walls were white. No one who smokes has walls that white—at least not long."

That and I have smelled him, I've had his tongue in my mouth, if he smoked, I think I could tell. However, I am a lady and a lady never mentions indelicate subjects like having a man's tongue in her mouth even if said man was her husband, so I just left it at the white wall thing.

"I had not thought of that." I cannot tell if he is concerned for the fate of his unblemished walls or if he was disturbed that he had overlooked this detail. The latter, probably. I think Darcy is rather proud of his mind and his ability to anticipate contingencies. So perhaps I know two things about Mr. Darcy.

"My study is eerie?" he added after a moment.

"Extremely." I smirked at his exasperated expression. King of the One Word Reply wants to chide me for reticence. Really, how preposterous.

"It is bare," I said after a good long pause to allow him time to appreciate how frustrating overly succinct answers could be, "No mementos, no art, nothing to reveal your tastes. Most people would find that odd, I think."

"I had it redone recently. I have not selected things to be put back."

He cast a strange smile in my direction. Was it meant to be appeasing? Friendly? This conversation had clearly discomposed him. Interesting. "But I have things," he added.

"I believe you," I said calmly, wearing the sort of superior smile of a person who has scored a point against an enemy (how I had scored said point or what game we were playing mattered little). Then I ruined my aura of awesomeness by taking a sip from my empty tea cup. I had forgotten.

"The rest of the house is, of course, yours to redecorate."

"To redecorate," I repeated stupidly.

"Yes, I know little of fashion, but I imagine much of this is out of date," he said with a lazy circle of his wrist indicating the room, "It should be redone. The public rooms at the very least."

I looked around as if I had not been sitting in this room for the last hour. And discovered another clock (really, _five_ clocks). It did have a rather 90's ambiance. But I knew nothing of redecorating. Mama never redecorated the house, at least not all at once. Not even a whole room at once. She just bought things when they struck her fancy and threw them in alongside the old things. Large redecorating projects took a lot of focus. And money.

A thought struck me. "It was your mother, then, who decorated these rooms last?"

He nodded.

"Will you not be sad to see the style altered, the things she chose removed?"

"Certainly I will. But it must happen. We cannot dwell in the past forever. Quite literally in this case." He spoke composedly, but a pall of anguish crossed his features. I was glad to see it. Not that I was enjoying his pain. I was glad to see his vulnerability, perhaps.

"Your mother must have had good taste. And really liked clocks," I said to break the tension.

He chuckled half-heartedly. For awhile we sat in silence, enjoying _Symphony with Five Clocks_ again.

"I do smoke. When the occasion calls for it. However, I do not like to. It yellows the teeth," Darcy said, I think for just something to say. Or perhaps he really wanted me to know he could smoke. It might be taken as a stain upon his manhood if he could not breath fire like all the other boys.

"Are you vain, Mr. Darcy?" I asked archly.

"Can the preservation of such perfection be considered vanity? I rather thought my abstinence demonstrated the proper appreciation of art," he said with much mock arrogance.

Darcy had made a jest! Of course I have heard him make jests before, but this one had a certain self-depreciating charm; he knew I thought him arrogant and was willing to tease himself a little.

Was this flirting? Could I be flirting with my husband?

Before I could find the answer to this most important question, Georgiana came sweeping into the room looking very grave indeed and completely disregarding the fact that her brother and I were kind of having a moment.

"We have a problem," she announced.

Sigh.


	11. Difficulty Deftly Handled

**10th December 1811**

 **Afternoon**

"The difficulty I warned you about?" Darcy asked.

Georgiana nodded vigorously, her eyes wide with fear. Though one might call my sister-in-law timid, I did not think her subject to fits of hysteria. Whatever this difficulty was it must be fearsome indeed.

Darcy did not appear to share Georgiana's terror. With a sigh he stood, adjusting his cravat and smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from his coat as though he had all the time in the world. Apparently the matter was irritating, but not pressing. His garments thus attended to he announced "I shall address it."

"Stay," he added as Georgiana and I made to follow him from the room.

Issuing such an imperious command was the least likely way to keep me from following. When will he learn?

Seemingly untroubled by being spoken to like a dog, Georgiana sank gratefully into the nearest chair. I, of course, trailed Darcy into the corridor.

Darcy heaved another great sigh, but made no remark about my disobedience. Instead he said, "This will not be pleasant."

"What is the difficulty?" I asked.

"My intractable aunt is here."

"Of course Mrs. Vane is here. It would be rather remarkable if she was not."

"I refer not to Constance, but to my mother's sister. Lady Catherine de Bourgh."

"Oh God," I said unthinkingly. It is unkind of me to be disposed to dislike the lady before even meeting her, but Mr. Collins greatly admires her. That should be condemnation enough.

"Indeed," Darcy agreed with feeling.

We found her in the foyer dressing down the butler who had been tasked with keeping her at bay. Saunders was babbling about his instructions as apologetically and deferentially as anyone could, but Lady Catherine was having none of it. She railed at him harshly. Saunders appear to be on the brink of sobbing.

Fortunately for the butler, our arrival distracted his assailant.

"Is this her?" Lady Catherine asked, her gaze sweeping critically over me. She was clearly just as indisposed to like me as I was her. Her lips turned up in a snarl of disgust and she averted her eyes after her short inspection. That was hardly enough time to really appreciate all my faults and advantages. She didn't even ask to see my teeth!

"I see that it is," she continued before anyone could answer, "The evidence of her low-breeding is obvious."

Really? Is it? But I haven't even said anything yet! Is it my chin? I have been told I have my mother's chin.

"Lady Catherine," Darcy said. That was all he said, just her name, but he said it in such a way everyone in the room flinched.

His aunt was only momentarily chastised however, "How could you do this to your family, Darcy? And for _her_? She looks like an imbecile. What is wrong with her?"

Imbecile indeed! To be fair, my mouth had been hanging open undoubtedly making me look vacant. But only because I was astounded by her rudeness.

"I am not simple," I said, "I am neither deaf nor mute either though I can be quite impertinent as you will soon find if you continue to speak about me as though I am not in the room."

"Who are you to address me thusly?" she demanded.

I think it was a rhetorical question, but Darcy, sensing an opening to save the encounter, said, "Lady Catherine, would you allow me to present my wife—"

"I will not allow it. I will not stand for this—"

"Then you will leave. Presently." Darcy strode past a trapped Saunders who was trying diligently to melt into the wall. He took his aunt's arm and gently but firmly began to steer her towards the entrance.

She wrenched herself from his grasp,"I will not be spoken like this!"

"No, Aunt, _Elizabeth_ will not be spoken to like this," Darcy replied vehemently. "As I informed you in my letter, I am willingly to address any criticism you wish to cast at me, but do not aim your vitriol at anyone else. To air your grievances before my servants, to abuse Saunders for carrying out my orders was abominable enough. To insult my wife in her home is intolerable and is beneath the dignity of someone of your breeding."

His words hit their mark expertly. Lady Catherine stammered unintelligibly.

"If you apologize to Elizabeth and promise to speak civilly for the remainder of your visit, you may discuss with me me any misunderstanding you might have had concerning my intentions towards your daughter. If you cannot, I must ask you to leave before you embarrass yourself further."

I would be surprised if anyone had ever given her such a set down in her life. She gaped at her nephew wordlessly for so long I was tempted to ask her if she was an imbecile.

Finally she spoke. "I apologize," she said, choking out the words as if someone were strangling her.

"Address Elizabeth, not me," Darcy commanded.

Reluctantly Lady Catherine turned her gaze to me. "I apologize," she repeated. This time her words were little more than a whimper.

I quickly nodded my acknowledgment. I almost pitied her. Almost.

"Good, we may continue this discussion in my study," Darcy said, leading his aunt away.

* * *

 **I know, I know. Shortest chapter ever. Real life has been holding me hostage lately *holds up newspaper bearing today's date*, so consider this chapter proof of life. I know I need to catch up on my edits from earlier chapters, but please keep your suggestions coming I truly am listening. As ever, thanks for reading.**


	12. Counsel of the Aunts

**11th December 1811**

 **Afternoon**

"So we are thinking forty people?" asked Rebecca, her hand hovering over the little notebook propped precariously on her bump, pen inked and at the ready.

"No, no, much smaller, much more intimate. Twelve guests. It must be exclusive," replied Mrs. Vane. She was paging through her own notebook, its cover worn at the edges, still guarding the secrets of her glory days of entertaining.

Discovering the page for which she sought, she said, "Ah, here it is, the menu from my most magnificent dinner party. I gave it in spring, so a few courses will have to be altered a little, but I think it will work nicely. We will have to find additional kitchen staff of course, but that should not be a problem this time of year."

"Extra staff? For just twelve guests?" Rebecca asked disbelievingly.

Mrs. Vane leaned across the divan, bridging the space between herself and her sister-in-law, she placed her notebook atop Rebecca's allowing her to peruse what I must assume was a very complicated menu, for after a moment Rebecca whispered a very stunned, "Oh."

"It was worth it. People talked about it for years," said Mrs. Vane impressively.

"Years?"

"Years," Mrs. Vane repeated with pride.

It is perhaps surprising that Mrs. Vane, who previously showed only disdain for Rebecca, is now sitting quite contentedly next to her planning a dinner party—a dinner party I will apparently be the hostess of—not directing a single catty quip her way . . . or my way which is beyond disconcerting.

This sudden lack of viciousness is better understood when one realizes Mrs. Vane is conserving her malicious energy for Lady Catherine. Lady Catherine who is sitting in the chair Rebecca may or may not have peed on yesterday (I forgot to mention it to the housekeeper so it was probably not cleaned with any special attention) also planning a dinner party I will be the hostess of. A _different_ dinner party. It happens to be scheduled for the same day, but that is all it has in common with Rebecca and Mrs. Vane's—excuse me— _my_ dinner party.

Lady Catherine did not bring a little notebook. Inexcusably ill-prepared, she is. Even I have a little notebook. Mrs. Vane gave it to me when I arrived and I have written nothing in it, but still. I have one. Lady Catherine, it would seem, does not need one as she is doing her planning aloud. In other words, she is talking to herself. No one is listening to her anymore.

I am also in the drawing room, sitting in a chair I am fairly certain has not been urinated on recently. I am not planning a dinner party I will be hostess of. Even if I had any desire to have a dinner party in the immediate future, I know there is no point in planning one as in a few minutes it will be something else. A musicale. A ball. A picnic with games on the lawn. Fine, probably not the last one (though I doubt Mrs. Vane would allow a small thing like the weather to stand in her way). But at the beginning of this session we (they) were planning a casual card party. Now it is an elaborate dinner party. It is escalating. Lord have mercy.

Rebecca, finishing her examination of Mrs. Vane's menu, handed the notebook back to her and said, "I think this is mostly perfect, but for the dessert course we should order out."

"Order out?" cried Mrs. Vane in a tone of greater outrage than anyone should have concerning dessert. Especially since, according to Belinda, pudding at the Vane house had been rubbish anyway.

Mrs. Vane continued, shaking her head, "I know some people order from a confectionery but I've always thought it is better to show that your own servants are capable of delicacies. It makes everyone envious thinking you dine so lavishly all the time. After I served this dinner, Lady Rafferty tried to poach my cook."

"I did not mean just any confectionery. I meant ices, from Gunter's."

"Ices," repeated Mrs. Vane as if the concept was a revolutionary stroke of genius.

"Mrs. Harwick did it."

"Really?" asked Mrs. Vane. I have no idea who Mrs. Harwick is but apparently she is Someone.

"Raspberry mint," confirmed Rebecca.

Mrs. Vane looked wistful, no doubt thinking of all the dinner invitations she had turned down these last few years. Recovering her authority she said,"We would have to have more. Three flavors at least. Choices."

"Obviously," agreed Rebecca with a single solemn nod that made her curls dance merrily. Her pen scratched audibly as it recorded the details.

They are going to talk about centerpieces next. I just know it.

"Now for the entertainment—"

Well, I was wrong. I felt certain it would be centerpieces.

"After such a dinner we need something more elegant than simply playing cards."

"Music. A professional. A stringed quartet and perhaps a singer from the opera. Whoever is the latest craze."

Rebecca nodded, still recording.

"And for the centerpieces—" Lady Catherine said her voice suddenly rising over the others. Ha. I was right about the centerpieces after all. I am so good at this game.

Mrs. Vane and Rebecca fell silent for a moment, glancing at Lady Catherine with the sort of curious pity one might spare for a begger on the street. In unison they turned back to each other.

"It is a pity Georgiana is not out so she could play. She is as good as any professional, it would be a wonderful chance to display," said Rebecca.

"I think it is best that she will not come out for another season. It would be best for her if everyone forgot Fitzwilliam has a sister for the time being. This scandal can only tarnish her by association. One must feel sorry for Dorothea coming out at such a time, but then her chances of a superior match were never good anyway considering her lack of fortune."

"I still do not think anyone will believe this newest gossip. It is too ridiculous."

Mrs. Vane gave Rebecca a look that said such naivete was what was actually too ridiculous. "They will believe the worst whatever it is. No matter whom it harms. Bored cows—wretched gossips," she added muttering vehemently to herself.

Rebecca patted her hand comfortingly. In honor of their newly formed alliance Mrs. Vane did not flinch at the gesture. Not noticeably at least.

The gossip to which they refer—the reason behind this sudden dinner party—is from _Lady Whisperton's Society Papers_. I once again have the honor of being mentioned there. Just two little lines at the end of a long list of inconsequential detritus about who made what faux pas and whose husband winked at which widow. Saving the most devastating for last I suppose was Lady Whisperton's intention. The pertinent lines read: _Many were shocked, I know, to see how the new Mrs. D. flirted so shamelessly with a certain young man of questionable reputation at Lady T.'s dinner party._ _H_ _ow appalled will they be when they learn she met with that same gentleman in the shades of Hyde Park that_ _very_ _morning?_

That I met with Sir Sebastian Seymour in Hyde Park is of course true, but what is implied by Lady Whisperton—what everyone will assume—is so terrible and unfair I start seething at the thought of it.

The gossip sheet, which was distributed just this morning, is the reason behind this meeting. Mrs. Vane believes the gossip will be best mitigated by me throwing some sort of party. Her logic behind this belief I do not understand and I find it especially surprising considering her response to the malicious gossip in her own life was to go into hiding.

But it would seem Rebecca and Lady Catherine agree with her. And thus this planning meeting. Rebecca, I believe, Mrs. Vane invited. Lady Catherine just showed up. I think she had not had enough time to properly insult me yesterday so she came back hoping to find Darcy out and me unprotected. What she discovered upon arrival must have been a great delight to her. Not only was Darcy out, but Rebecca and Mrs. Vane were in the midst of discussing the gossip sheet, and seeing no way to hide it from her (and there was really no point anyway as it will be all over town within the day) they revealed the horrible tripe. To have her opinion of me so quickly vindicated was enough to make her smile but to have the added joy of of planning a party sent her into raptures.

Well, at least someone is happy.

Really Rebecca and Mrs. Vane seem quite pleased too. So I suppose it is just me who is unhappy. And probably Darcy once he hears the gossip. I wonder where he is. At Mr. Bingley's probably. Does he have other friends? Or perhaps he is at his club. Which club? Boodle's surely. Or is his blood blue enough for White's? And what sort of wife am I that I still do not even know? Oh, yes, the accidental sort.

These are not the most pertinent questions anyway. What I should be trying to discern is who told this Lady Whisperton I met with Sir Sebastian in the park. Not Mr. Farthingham. He does not seem the sort to gossip. Or talk to anyone about anything other than birds. If only it were insects Dora might find him more interesting.

Perhaps Sir Sebastian mentioned it to someone else. But why? Did he not realize how such information might be construed? Perhaps he did not care. According to Darcy he has already been responsible for sullying the reputation of one married lady.

Oh, no. Lady Catherine and Mrs. Vane are arguing again. Or rather Lady Catherine is arguing. Mrs. Vane will not indulge her in an argument so she just goes on a defensive monologue as if someone were arguing with her whilst Mrs. Vane smirks. It is all very masterful on Mrs. Vane's part if she is trying to make Lady Catherine look like an insane person, but we all must still unfortunately listen to Lady Catherine rant. Or perhaps not listen, rather we must go through the effort of tuning out her incessant droning.

I am so glad Lady Catherine is not staying with us. She has her own house in town, though she rarely stays in it. For which I am certain all the occupants of town are deeply grateful. I hope the servants in her London house have been lax and there is dust . . . and spiders. I usually do not wish spiders on anyone but she deserves them.

"—though I think it is ludicrous to believe a mere dinner will solve anything. An error of this proportion . . . .What Darcy could have been thinking I will never know—"

Big ones.

"One only has to look at her to see the evidence of her low breeding. No, no I do not think anything can be done, as sad as I am for my nephew, I think we must face facts—she needs to be hidden away not brought out into good society."

Giant spiders that crawl in her mouth while she sleeps.

I could silence her quite easily. I could have her thrown from the house. Darcy did tell her only yesterday I was not to be insulted. I do not think he would mind terribly if I behaved rudely to her given the provocation, however it is almost enjoyable to watch her become flustered. Especially when Rebecca and Mrs. Vane continue their conversation as if she has not spoken at all.

"If we are going to do centerpieces at all they should be short. There is nothing worse than those absurdly large flower arrangements. One cannot even see the person opposite them at the table," said Rebecca.

Mrs. Vane replied scathingly, "Guests are not meant to talk across the table."

"Of course not, but one likes to _see_. Besides servants knock centerpieces over while serving."

"Not my servants," said Mrs. Vane, apparently forgetting the fact that these are my servants we are discussing. My servants who admittedly are terrified of Mrs. Vane and probably would not knock over centerpieces no matter how absurdly large they were.

"—and Lady Anne agrees with me," Lady Catherine said finishing her speech grandly as if she had an audience.

I forgot to mention that Darcy's mother is here as well. Like the typical dreaded mother-in-law she hates me. Unlike the typical dreaded mother-in-law her presence is incorporeal. She is sitting next to me. In spirit. Or at least I think she is because Lady Catherine keeps referring to her sister as if she were present and then glancing at the empty chair beside me. So Lady Anne is there. Or Lady Catherine is mad. Either one.

"Elizabeth, what is your opinion?"

Rebecca is so adorable. She thinks I get an opinion.

"I do not think a dinner party will be enough to make people forget my villainy. I think we need a ball. A grand one," I said facetiously.

Rebecca squealed delightedly. "I love a ball. Oh, do lets have a ball, please," she begged turning to Mrs. Vane.

Mrs. Vane pretends to consider. I say pretends because I know she will not consent. Alliance or no, crushing Rebecca's hopes will be too tempting to her. Also a ball is a terrible idea.

"I think you are right, yes. A bold maneuver. That is what we need."

What have I done? Of all the moments for Mrs. Vane to suddenly start agreeing with me.

Rebecca turned to an unmarked sheet in her notebook and began to scribble excitedly. "We will need to select musicians immediately. And contact the hothouses to see what flowers are available. What day are we thinking?"

And then they are off, debating dates and flowers and refreshments and everything else. Lady Catherine, despite thinking I should be locked away in an attic somewhere (and Lady Anne quite agreeing with her) begins planning her own ball as well. I guess she just cannot help herself.

"What is going on?" Darcy whispered as he dropped suddenly into the chair next to me. I wonder if I should tell him he is sitting on his mother? No one else marked his entrance. They are all too involved in their plans.

"We are to have a ball apparently."

"Indeed, how nice. I love a ball." Unlike Rebecca I know when someone is being facetious.

"Why are we giving a ball exactly?" he asked.

"Have you heard the latest?"

"Yes, not yet a week wed and you've already given me horns," he said teasingly. And then he smiled at me. Almost fondly. It is very disconcerting.

"It has been a week."

"Has it?"

"The wedding was on a Tuesday this is Wednesday."

"So it is," he said airily. Most unDarcy-like.

"I think the idea is to make people like me by providing them food and festivities."

Darcy nodded. "Whatever my feelings regarding balls, it is an idea with some merit."

"Is it?"

"Most people enjoy such entertainments and are loath to turn down any invitation. To attend a ball is to give—not precisely approval of its hostess—but it does demonstrate that the guests do not think her reputation so dangerous that it may affect their own by association."

"So you think we should give a ball?"

Darcy shrugged "We must give one at some point, I suppose. There is no reason it should not be soon."

"It should be a Twelfth Night ball. A masquerade. You can wear your horns and I am sure I can find some costume befitting my adulterous shame," I said in jest, though I was warming to the idea of a ball.

Darcy gave me an indulgent smile in reply. I do not think we have been married long enough for him to be giving me such smiles. The "Oh, yes she is quite mad, isn't she? But I put up with it valiantly," sort of smile. The kind of smile Papa wears when listening to Mama's nonsense.

"I am serious now, not about the horns, of course, but about a fancy dress ball, what would you dress as?"

"Whatever you found for me."

"Come now, you cannot be so indifferent."

"I dislike balls in general, fancy dress balls in particular; I find it difficult to rouse the proper enthusiasm."

Really, this is worse than hating chocolate and kittens.

"Do you like kittens?" I asked before I could stop myself.

His expression shifted to one of understandable confusion.

"Fitzwilliam!" "Darcy!"

Of course, his aunts would choose this moment to notice his presence. This is how I came to be eight days wed to a man and still unsure if he hates kittens or not.

"Present," Darcy said, nodding a sort of general greeting.

"We are planning a ball," said Rebecca excitedly.

"I have heard."

"We have not yet set a date," she continued.

"It will be the on the fifth of January. Elizabeth wants a Twelfth Night masquerade," Darcy said as if that settled the matter. Which of course it did.


	13. The Subtle Art of Matchmaking

**12th December 1811**

 **Afternoon**

Jane is here. She arrived somewhat later in the afternoon than I had expected looking weary, though she did her best to insist it had been a pleasant journey. An obvious untruth as the roads could only have got worse since I traveled them a little more than a week ago.

Since her arrival we have been ensconced in my sitting room gossiping merrily.

"And she is _still_ set on marrying him?" I have asked this already but it bears repeating.

"Yes, Lizzy," replied Jane with a patient smile.

"And you do not think I ought to tell her about the horrors that await her in married life?" I am referring to the horrors of Charlotte's future married life in particular in this instance—having Lady Catherine for a neighbor—not more general horrors such as discovering the enormity of one's husband's weaponry. Oh God. Now I am thinking of Mr. Collins's bayonet and I want to vomit.

"She is not marrying Lady Catherine after all," Jane said reasonably. If only life were reasonable.

I snorted. "That is what Charlotte thinks now, but ask her after a few weeks of marriage. When you marry a man you marry his family, his friends, and all associated hangers-on and it is fully possible to end up spending more time with his relations than you ever spend with him."

Did that sound resentful? I think it may have sounded resentful. Jane looked at me with great concern then her eyes flicked over to Dora, thinking perhaps she might take offense at my comment.

I had quite forgotten Dora was there. Which is horrible since she, finding herself between beetles to illustrate at the moment, so kindly offered to help me with the invitations. The invitations to the Twelfth Night ball that is really happening. And I really am going to be the hostess. And I really need to learn to keep my mouth shut with my sarcasm and my "good" ideas. Really.

My reluctance about this ball aside, it is less than four weeks away so the invitations need to go out immediately. They just came back from the printers late this afternoon and now we have only to add each guest's name before we can begin sending them out tomorrow. Which sounds simple enough until one realizes there are to be three hundred guests and the names have to be written legibly because people like to be able to read their own name apparently. To my mind, if I gave you the invitation obviously it means I want you there. Does it really matter if the invitation looks like it says, "Miss Marine Hughboob" instead of "Miss Marianne Highbrook"? I think not.

Jane and Dora disagree. Well, Jane disagreed and Dora was just sort of there. Dora doesn't do opinions on anything non-insect related. There is furniture in this house with more opinions than Dora, thus why I sometimes forget her presence. Which is wrong of me. And not just because Dora does the most beautiful calligraphy.

Jane, clearly feeling we had been neglecting Dora in our conversation (and we certainly had, we had been going on about Mama and Meryton and Charlotte for half an hour at least), asked, "Are you enjoying being out, Dora?"

"Not really," said Dora matter-of-factly.

This frank reply discomposed my usually composed sister. "I am sure you will enjoy the season more as it progresses," she said soothingly.

Dora shook her head in disagreement though her expression remained perfectly cheerful."I see no reason to think so."

Jane struggled for something to say. I had not had time to warn her about Dora and the frustrating deficiency of her conversation. It would probably be rude to announce, "Dora is odd and should be left to herself," so I let my poor, sweet sister struggle on, speaking pleasantries to a lady who had no appreciation for them. If Dora appeared angry or annoyed Jane would not press her, but she wears a serene smile, very similar to the one Jane often wears, as if nothing bothers her and I do not think it _does_ bother her, especially when she is not working on her own project.

Dora had worn that same serene expression earlier this afternoon when we were having our first proper at-home. Mr. Farthingham called, blessedly without the too charming Sir Sebastian Seymour in tow.

He exchanged all the expected niceties with me in the hurried, unenthusiastic manner of a child bid to eat every bite of his tripe and potatoes before having his sweet. Minimal courtesy thus seen to, he settled into his true purpose of lavishing praise upon Dora as she put the finishing touches on her latest illustration.

"What beautiful work. It is most life-like," he commented as he peered over her shoulder.

Without sparing him a glance Dora said, "Yes, that is rather the point."

Though I admired her response, I braced for how Mr. Farthingham would take it, knowing most gentlemen would resent having their compliments so carelessly dismissed. To my astonishment he seemed completely charmed, smiling easily and seating himself in the chair nearest to her.

"You can do subjects beyond specimen illustration, I imagine," observed the undaunted Mr. Farthingham.

"I can, but I do not like to," was Dora's reply.

Mr. Farthingham sat there a quarter of an hour more, ignoring me as he plied Dora (who continued to ignore everyone) with flattery. Despite his neglect of me I was quite pleased with him, for when Mrs. Hamilton called just a few minutes after his arrival his presence provided some excuse for Dora's lack of conversation which Mrs. Hamilton might have otherwise thought rude.

Instead of feeling slighted by Dora's lack of attention to her, Mrs. Hamilton approved her her performance. Nodding sagely at the couple she whispered, "Knows what she's doing that one. Always best to play coy at first. Gentlemen like the chase, you know."

Mrs. Hamilton, having recently fulfilled her life's purpose of seeing her only daughter well settled with a suitable husband, considered matchmaking her greatest talent and was now determined to see everyone else properly wed. I knew this after only a few minutes conversation with her at Lady Truesdell's dinner where she pointed out every hint of flirtation between the guests and predicted the chances of martial felicity among the potential couples.

"Son of Lord Ware, you know. _Second_ son, unfortunately. Has an appointment of some kind with the government, cannot remember what at the moment. Will have some monies settled on him from his mother's father, I understand. Quite a comfortable situation. And such connections. His mother is the grandniece of the Earl of Chesterton," said Mrs. Hamilton in an excited whisper.

I had noted the lady's abhorrence of full sentences the first time I spoke to her, so I was somewhat prepared for confusion, but all this information was pressed upon me so suddenly I did not at first know what to make of it. Then I realized she was speaking of Mr. Farthingham, of course, and it was not idle gossip, it was something that I, as Dora's chaperon, should know.

After a furtive peek at the gentlemen in question to see if he had heard this concise assessment of him (he was still completely ensnared by Dora), I leaned towards Mrs. Hamilton entreatingly, the universal signal for "Tell me more."

"Cannot think his parents will be—oh, how to put this delicately?—his parents may not be overjoyed at the prospect of a daughter-in-law so lacking in," Mrs. Hamilton paused, producing a theatrical sniff to display her distaste at uttering the very word, " _money._ But the Darcy name, of course, is _something_."

Well, many of those who bear the name are certainly _something_.

"And she is a beauty," my informant continued, "And when a young man is determined there is very little anyone can do about it."

I felt that I should point out that they had only met twice now and it would be rather precipitate to declare their marriage an unstoppable eventuality at this early juncture, however Mr. Farthingham's infatuation was obvious and offers of marriage were often made after an acquaintance of a few months or sometimes only a few weeks. Mrs. Hamilton was right. Dora could soon expect an offer of marriage especially if Mr. Farthingham considered her complete disregard of him encouraging. I held my silence.

"Very young indeed, you know. Not yet four and twenty. Perhaps too young to be settled, but he is the steady sort, though he associates with a wild crowd. Yet I do not think him wild, as I said, but I feel I should tell you."

I thanked her for her revelations because she seemed to expect it and her information was certainly helpful even if it had been communicated distressingly near the subject.

"Well done of you to steer her his way. Well done, indeed. Some might say with her beauty, she might make a better match—perhaps not better connected, but more wealth. Such fancies do not do at all. Even if such gentleman could be found and enticed, there is such a thing as marrying too far above oneself."

With much mock gravity I said, "Yes, I can imagine."

Mrs. Hamilton pinkened at once and I knew her words had not been meant as an underhanded swipe, rather she had completely forgotten to whom she was speaking. Which is rather wonderful as it means my scandalous marriage is already fading from memory. Gossips' memories. For some reason I have not been able to forget it.

In an effort to show her I was not at all offended I complimented her dress. I have no idea why as it was really a terrible dress, and the cut could not be said to flatter her figure at all but one has to say something and, "Goodness, you really put your foot in your mouth there," is really only something you say to close friends.

Before Mrs. Hamilton went away she cast the couple a final glace and, without endeavoring to whisper this time, said "Charming couple they make. Wedding bells before Easter, mark my words."

Dora looked up at that moment, eyes wide, yet she said nothing (not even a farewell to Mrs. Hamilton) returning to her work as if nothing shocking had been spoken. Mr. Farthingham showed no signs of upset at the remark, he stood and said all the proper things to Mrs. Hamilton before taking his own leave in her wake.

I do not know what to do about Dora. I have no wish to be like Mama, forever babbling about advantageous matches and suitable husbands, yet the truth of the matter is Dora is penniless. It has been suggested that Darcy's Great Aunt Margaret will leave her something but to my understanding it will not be much. Relying on an inheritance of some unknown amount to be settled on one at some unknown time in the future does not seem wise. Dora can of course stay here or go to any other relative who is willing to take her, but that does not seem a very steady future either.

Should I tell her she ought to encourage Mr. Farthingham because he has a cozy government appointment and titled relations? I hate the very idea of such mercenary considerations, yet a husband is really the only likely solution to her problems.

It occurs to me that before my marriage my situation had been only slightly better than Dora's and I had had no serious plans for husband hunting either. I just thought a rich, handsome husband would come along. And he did. Husband hunting should always come so easily.

After Mr. Farthingham left, Mr. Bingley called. I wished Jane had arrived earlier to see him (Mr. Bingley, I think, wished the same thing) but I invited him to dine with us tonight so they will be reunited very soon.

"Will you wear your blue gown tonight, Jane?" I asked, because I am apparently Mama and I must speak a thing the moment it comes into my head.

Jane turned to me, startled. I had interrupted her desperate attempt to carry on a polite conversation with Dora which she had been struggling valiantly at since I had begun woolgathering some minutes ago.

"You should definitely wear the blue," I continued, because once one has been rude it is really so much easier just to continue being so. "I think Mr. Bingley likes you in the blue," I added just to nettle her because I am her younger sister and nettling is what younger sisters do.

"I am sure neither of us can know what Mr. Bingley likes," Jane replied primly, taking far more interest in the invitation she was working on than was necessary.

Every time I bring up Mr. Bingley she goes all cryptic and strange. She can be as cryptic and strange as she wants provided she does not do it in front of Mr. Bingley. That would only confuse him and I do not think he handles confusion well. He is not at all like Mr. Farthingham. He needs encouragement. Really obvious encouragement. Cryptic and strange will not cut it.

Dinner tonight will be perfect. Lady Catherine won't be joining us. She informed me of this fact as if I had made an invitation (I hadn't) and I would be terribly crushed that she was turning it down (I wasn't). She will be dining with a dear friend who is a Very Important Personage. She made the importance of the personage very clear several times obviously desperate for me to ask to whom she was referring (I didn't).

So that is one unpleasant aunt out of the way. Mrs. Vane will, of course, be at dinner unless I devise some means to lock her in her room. Which I would never do, obviously. Even if the housekeeper does find me the key to Mrs. Vane's bedroom door. Which I did not ask her to do. Obviously.

But I think Mrs. Vane will behave well enough beyond her usual catty remarks and I can rely on everyone else to be pleasant or, in Darcy's case, at the very least not to Glare (and if he does I am not above kicking him under the table). Nothing shall interfere with my brilliant matchmaking plans.

Oh, God. I am turning into Mama. I always thought women like Mama and Mrs. Hamilton had some character flaw which caused them to become meddlers and gossips, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps marriage does this to all women.

Yet I am not really interfering am I? Mr. Bingley likes Jane. Jane likes Mr. Bingley. All I did was invite the man to dinner. Perfectly natural thing to do. He is my husband's dearest friend (perhaps only friend). There is nothing nefarious about me asking him to dine.

But if I did have a few other little plans—not saying I do—but if I did would that be so wrong?

"Lizzy, what are you planning?" Jane asked suspiciously.

"Planning? Why do you think I'm planning something?"

"Because you are humming. You always hum when you are planning something," she said, looking at me with a sort of uncomfortable, pursed-lipped expression that is the closest as as Jane can come to disapproval.

"I was not humming."

"You were," said Dora, inconveniently choosing this moment to start noticing things, "Quite out of tune."

"Sometimes people just hum, you know. It doesn't have to mean anything," I argued.

"Don't do it."

"Do what?"

"Whatever you are planning with me and Mr. Bingley. Do not do it," Jane said, her tone as intimidating as I had ever heard it. So still not at all intimidating.

"I wasn't going to do anything," I said, lying through my teeth.


	14. A Truce for Tonight

**12th December 1811**

 **Dinner**

* * *

As it would happen, I cannot kick Darcy under the table. Not that I am incapable of the action or I lack proper encouragement—nay, all those factors are present—I merely cannot reach him. Trust me, I've tried. Repeatedly.

I thought glaring would be the worse thing he could do. I thought he would be his stuffy, impossible self and hinder conversation with his succinct replies and severe tone. Instead he is being some other person's impossible self. He is being talkative, nonsensical, and disruptive. My husband is being my mother and it needs to stop at once.

Mr. Bingley has barely said a word to Jane because every time he so much as looks at her—

"The beef is particularly well-done today. Tender and not at all dry, do not you agree, Bingley?"

Mr. Bingley turned to Darcy, his expression all politeness and concern, perhaps a little heavier on the concern than the politeness as this was at least the sixth time Darcy had interrupted him with an asinine remark. "Certainly, best beef I've ever eaten," he agreed genially because he is Mr. Bingley and it would never occur to him to say, "Darcy, would you please shut your mouth and keep it closed."

Again Mr. Bingley returned his attention to Jane, he drew a breath as if to speak—

"Beef, I think, is one of the more difficult meats to get right, mutton, perhaps, the only one more challenging."

I have revised my opinion, my husband is being Mr. Collins. Mama's conversation is at least entertaining. Ridiculous, but entertaining.

I cast my foot out, trying once more to reach Darcy's leg under the table to no avail. I could throw something, I suppose. A particularly well-done cut of beef. Or a knife.

Mrs. Vane was the only problem I had anticipated. When she had pleaded a headache and announced she would dine in her rooms I had been far more ecstatic than any decent person should be upon hearing a family member felt poorly (in my defense I am certain she was faking either to avoid Mr. Bingley or Jane). As I said, the worst I thought Darcy would do was glare. I cannot believe I ever wanted more conversation from of the man.

I would suspect some manner of poison if he had not been acting strangely before we even sat down to dine, but his odd behavior began in the drawing room as we awaited the meal. Jane, Mr. Bingley, Dora, Georgiana, and I were all assembled when Darcy strolled in, inserted himself awkwardly on the sofa between Jane and Mr. Bingley where there really was not room for him, then proceeded to monopolize Mr. Bingley's conversation.

At the time I was annoyed with his behavior but I did not suspect him of treachery. The conversation he had with Mr. Bingley seemed at least vaguely important but now the man is going on about the beef which is delicious, but by no means warrants this much conversation. I can only conclude he is trying to keep Mr. Bingley from speaking to Jane.

"Now with fish, the most essential thing is getting it fresh—"

Perhaps it is Lady Catherine whom Darcy is doing an impersonation of, she enjoys giving unasked for advice and speaking just to hear her own voice.

When the next course comes in I am going to throw my soup spoon at Darcy. No one will witness my impropriety with the servants providing the perfect distraction. I do not think Darcy will understand my message nor will it stop him if he does, but it will make me feel better.

* * *

 **12th December 1811**

 **Evening**

I did not throw my spoon at Darcy.

I thought one of us should behave properly. Also I was afraid my aim might be negatively affected by my rage and I would hit Georgiana instead.

Darcy continued on in the same ridiculous manner through the remainder of dinner. That a man whose greatest culinary achievement was probably making toast over the fire in his residence hall at Harrow should have so much to say on the subject of proper cookery was truly astounding. Or perhaps he went to Eton? Once again I am struck by how little I know about my husband. It does not matter. Clearly he is mad and I am going to get an annulment as soon as I can have him declared insane.

Fine, I know you cannot have a man declared insane for talking too much at dinner. However it certainly is cause for concern when this particular man makes a fool of himself in such a way. Everyone noticed and was disturbed by it. Well . . . perhaps Dora did not notice.

As if hearing my thoughts, Dora suddenly asked, "Is something wrong with Fitzwilliam? He was acting rather strangely."

"I think he is—" Georgiana began.

Deranged?

A determined meddler?

An unmitigated arse?

"—trying to be a good host."

"He isn't very good at it," she added after a moment's consideration.

Could that be it? Was it perhaps unfair of me to conclude he was attempting to keep Mr. Bingley from Jane? Could he have been trying to please me by being more willing (far too willing) to converse?

No, I do not think I can absolve him so easily. He had to have realized he was making an idiot of himself. It was obvious treachery. Too obvious. Really, I expected better of him. A little more subtlety.

I glanced around the drawing room at my once again silent gathering of ladies. I wasn't being a good hostess either. Yet stirring up conversation had proved difficult thus far. Georgiana is shy and Dora cannot be bothered and Jane. . . .

Jane is acting rather strangely as well.

She has been quiet and doleful and she would barely even smile at Mr. Bingley. Perhaps the journey is taking its toll. I ought to have insisted she lie down before dinner.

Things will be much more exciting when the gentlemen return from Darcy's study. Darcy insisted on observing the ritual separation of the sexes after dinner—quite ridiculous with a party of this size—yet another obvious attempt to keep his friend away from my sister. But at some point the men must return and when they do we will play charades and it will be magical.

Yes, magical.

Charades is the perfect game to encourage affection. Jane and Mr. Bingley will be on a team together, I will make certain of it. They will stare into each other's eyes and laugh at each other's antics and this odd stiffness between them will abate.

 _Magical_.

"You didn't have cigars," I whispered to Darcy accusingly when he and Mr. Bingley joined us a few minutes later.

Darcy made no reply, regarding me oddly as if I was the strange one in this marriage. True, I had just sniffed him, but I had done it very casually and no one but he had noticed.

"You had no reason to hide yourselves in the study."

"We had a drink."

"You could have taken your brandy in here."

"We had port."

Yes, a very important distinction. Husbands are infuriating.

"You could have taken your port in here," I ground out, my jaw clenched in annoyance.

"We had things we needed to discuss privately," Darcy said with a significant glance towards Mr. Bingley who was clutching the coffee I had just handed to him, standing nervously in the center of the room as if he did not know what to do with himself while staring longingly at Jane.

Meanwhile Jane was not looking at Mr. Bingley at all, very purposefully not looking at him, as she discussed beetles solemnly with Dora.

I thrust a cup at Darcy who winced as a good deal of coffee sloshed over the edges onto his hand.

"Let's play charades."

My announcement elicited a happy exclamation from Mr. Bingley, pleased smiles from Georgiana and Jane, and a tolerant grimace-that-is-trying-very-hard-to-be-a-smile from Dora. From Darcy it evoked a wrathful glare as if I had just suggested sacrificing a goat in some sort of demonic ritual.

"No," he said. Rather forcefully and I think he realized he had said it too forcefully for he looked abashed for half a second. Which of course only meant he had to reassert his stupid statement because he is Mr. Darcy and he will not be made to feel abashed.

"I don't like charades," he said as if it were some justification for ruining the amusement of everyone else.

"Fine," I said crossing the room to the pianoforte. I sat down at the instrument. "I will play. You said only yesterday how you wished to hear me."

"I did?" Darcy asked with some confusion. I gave him The Stare. If he can use The Glare I can use The Stare. It's only fair.

Darcy, perhaps finally realizing he was a gentleman and therefore could not be seen to be contradicting a lady, said "Yes, of course I did."

"And you will turn the pages for me," I added.

"Surely Georgiana could—"

Again I utilized the Stare.

"Of course I will," Darcy said reluctantly, then he crossed the room to stand next to me.

Mr. Bingley took the seat next to Jane and spoke some quiet message that made her smile. Mwahahaha.

"You are a menace," Darcy whispered.

"Genius, you say?" I asked, pretending I misheard him. "I don't know about that, but I am certainly brilliant."

"What will you play?"

I shifted through the sheet music hoping for something familiar. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"Whatever you wish."

"Yes, I should choose since I so desperately wished to hear you play."

"Exactly."

Darcy smirked. I did not like that smirk.

"This," he said, selecting a song that was most certainly beyond me.

Jane's careful, pleasant laugh rang out, harmonizing with Mr. Bingley's more ebullient chuckle as they shared some private mirth reminding me why making a fool of myself was completely worth it. I started to play. My progress was halting and terribly out of time and Darcy appeared pained.

"You are not going to sing?" he asked.

"I am doing well just to play."

"Are you?"

I gave him a look. It was not even the full Stare, but it produced the desired affect.

"I apologize, that was uncalled for."

"I _can_ play, you know," I said irritably as I stumbled through another difficult passage. "If I've had time to practice."

"Yes, I know. I have heard you," he said with the air of someone trying to calm a madwoman.

I stopped playing. "Do not speak to me like I am the mad one. You are the lunatic as everyone will know when the annulment is finalized," I whispered.

Darcy's eyes glittered with amusement. "What have I done to prove my lunacy?"

"The entirety of your dinner conversation. Talking about the tenderness of the meat and the piquant flavor of the wine and that whole ridiculous nonsense when you went on and on about what Parliament will debate and the troubles in the East."

"Yes, the food and the state of the empire, clearly topics only a lunatic would discuss over dinner," Darcy said with his usual calm tone that made me want to scratch the amusement right off of his face.

But he is the mad one, so there would be no scratching. At least not with witnesses present.

"I know what you were really doing."

"Being a good host?"

"Keeping Mr. Bingley from Jane, though I cannot think why you should wish to."

"We should not discuss this here," Darcy warned, leaning very close to me as he did so.

The heat of his breath against my ear brought on thoughts. Unsettling thoughts. Certainly not pleasant thoughts. No, indeed. Just consuming remembrances of searing kisses, and soft, teasing caresses, and . . . bayonets. I shifted away from him, fumbling at the keys, making the most horrible cacophony I had managed thus far.

As if taking my retreat as an invitation, Darcy sat down on the bench next to me.

" _I_ will play, you sing," he said.

"You think you can play better than me?" I asked, all the outrage of earlier returning to my voice.

"I can read music at the very least."

"As can I."

"Then why do you keep playing that B flat as an A?"

"I do not!"

"It should sound like this," he said. He began to play. And almost immediately bungled.

"Oh yes, a veritable master of music. I bow down to your excellence," I teased.

"I need a moment to practice," he said with great dignity.

"If a moment means a month, then yes, I will agree that is exactly what you need."

"You are making me nervous."

"Am I? Am I scowling at your every error? Wincing audibly? Rolling my eyes at your every pause?"

"I did not—" Darcy began then halted, knowing he most certainly had. "You asked me to turn the pages," he finished lamely.

"And that is what you shall do while _I_ play."

He caught my hand before I could lay a finger on the keys.

"I cannot play one handed," I said, glowering at him.

My menacing stare had no effect on him this time. He grinned. "Hardly an argument for me letting go."

He ran his thumb over my knuckles, pulling me closer until there was no room between us. And then kissed he me, just a lovely, soft, perfect brush of the lips. Before I had time to protest it was over.

"That was . . . that was—

Wonderful?

Heavenly?

Why stop there?

"—inappropriate," I said finally, ignoring my own inner thoughts.

"No one noticed."

I glanced over at our party. No one appeared to be staring at us aghast.

"I'm still angry with you," I said.

"I assumed you would be, but perhaps we might call a truce, for tonight."

"You will not interrupt Jane and Mr. Bingley?" I asked.

"I will not."

I had noted that ominous "for tonight". That was concerning. However, he would change his mind about Mr. Bingley and Jane. He was just a snob, not a monster. Bingley's obvious happiness would make Darcy willing to overlook Jane's unfortunate relations. And as it was, he himself was now one of her unfortunate relations.

"And we will play charades?" Press the advantage while you have it, that is what I always say.

Darcy sighed. "Fine," he said with much displeasure.

Out of respect for his feelings I contained my gleeful squeal.


	15. The Disappearing Dora

**19th December 1811**

Sometimes you see a handsome stranger from across a crowded room, you meet his dark, mysterious eyes, a rush of elation sweeps through you to your very bones, and you just know

. . . that this already terrible evening is about to get even worse because that handsome stranger is not actually a stranger at all but your husband and that rush you felt is not the thrill of illicit love but rather that sinking feeling best verbalized as—

"Oh, bloody hell."

My whispered curse earns me a scandalized glare from the lady next to me. And by next to me I mean pressed right up against me because this party is an absolute crush which must make Mrs. Hamilton, the hostess, very pleased, but makes her guests feel like herring in a barrel and the resulting heat of all these tightly packed bodies makes said guests smell just as strongly odoriferous as said herring, though blessedly not as fishy.

The impermeable crowd dashes my hopes of escape from Darcy who is now approaching. He would come to visit me now when everything has spun out of control. A quarter of an hour prior everything was going splendidly. Dora was seated next to me speaking to Mr. Farthingham (about beetles of course, but he did seem genuinely interested) and Jane was conversing pleasantly with Mr. Bingley.

And then suddenly everything inexplicably went very wrong. Mr. Bingley took his leave of Jane without asking her to dance, and worse still when I turned to speak to Dora she was no where to be found.

I have left Jane in the corner with Mrs. Rose (a highly respectable but somewhat senile nonagenarian who has no idea where she is but is pleased as anything to be here) while I search for Dora. The last thing I wanted was for Darcy to emerge from the card room just as things have gone to—

"Bloody hell," I said, this time quite audibly, as a portly gentleman trod on my toes. Portly and full of port if his stumbling gait is any indication. Mrs. Hamilton has seemingly tried to make up for her lack of sufficient floor space by the liberal distribution of her wine stores.

The gentleman is still shouting apologies at me when Darcy finally pushes his way to me through the mob, though he makes a hasty retreat when he sees Darcy's glare. He should not have worried. The glare was not for him. It is for me. I know because it is the Lizzy Specific Glare. This glare is thusly composed: one half exasperation, one quarter amusement, one third ire, two thirds resignation, and one eighth some inscrutable, smoldering emotion I cannot quite describe, but just the merest hint of it in his eyes makes my knees weak—which is unfortunate because it is hard enough to stay upright with my possibly broken toes.

I realize that all adds up to one and seven eighths but it is a complicated glare.

And Darcy is a complicated man.

And my feelings for him are complicated . . . to say the least.

"Should we perhaps find someone to perform a formal introduction?" I asked after a long bout of silence.

The Lizzy Glare shifted to a look of bewilderment, another expression he wears so often in my presence I might as well call it his Look of Be-Lizzyment.

"We see so little of each other lately I thought perhaps you no longer recognized me and needed to be introduced," I explained.

"No matter how much you might endeavor to avoid me, do not think I will so easily forget you," Darcy said in a low, teasing tone. His eyes glittered with that alluring smolder, touched with an edge of warning.

"I am the one doing the avoiding?" I asked, lowering my own voice. I should have been more careful. I had forgotten how very interesting we are. All the conversation around us had taken on that distracted, stilted quality conversation so often does when its participates are just using it as a cover for their eavesdropping.

"Of late? Yes, I should say so."

Perhaps I _had_ been the one doing the avoiding. Lately. But it was not intentional. Fine, not completely intentional. Not seeing much of Darcy was an unintended advantage of having so very much to do. Not an advantage, I do not mean that. I want to spend time with Darcy. I want to get to know him. Probably. . . .

I want to get to know him if he is the person I want him to be rather than the person I thought he was when I first met him. Does that make sense? No, I know it does not, but it does not matter. Between preparing for our Twelfth Night ball and chaperoning Dora and Jane to various events I have barely seen him much less spoken to him. Which is good. Because we are at odds. As usual.

He is keeping Jane and Mr. Bingley apart. Not in the obvious, idiotic way he tried the evening of Jane's arrival. No, this time he has carried out some insidious plan and it has worked masterfully. Probably. . . .

I have no proof of any nefarious schemes on his part. How could I have any such evidence? As I've said, I have barely seen him. But I have observed Mr. Bingley quite closely and the change in him is undeniable. He has grown colder and colder towards Jane throughout this past week and, though I know Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst would do anything to keep their brother from making an alliance with the Bennets, I do not think they have enough influence over him to have brought about such a dramatic alteration.

Darcy, however, could persuade Mr. Bingley so completely. He told me as much when I was staying at Netherfield during Jane's illness. Of course he was not speaking of his own influence in particular when he revealed how easily Mr. Bingley could lead by a friend, we were speaking hypothetically. Probably. . . .

I wish now I could better remember his exact words. I know it was a silly conversation. Or rather, it was a silly argument, for we were always at odds even then. But I wonder now if Darcy might have been trying to warn me. Amiable as Mr. Bingley is, he is, like all of us, not without deficiencies of character. And this malleability he has demonstrated is a dreadful deficiency. At the time, I believe, I contended that to readily surrender to the persuasion of a friend was virtuous, displaying a deeper regard for the affection between friends than for the satisfaction having one's own way.

Now I feel Darcy might have had a point about the importance of well-reasoned arguments and adhering to ones convictions no matter how minor.

I hate it when Darcy has a point. I also hate the way he is looking at me. He isn't glaring anymore. His gaze has gone all soft and concerned . . . and proprietary. From the look on his face one would think he took some sort of binding vow to be responsible for my health and happiness till the end of his days.

"Are you injured?" he asked with a glance to my foot, which I had quite forgotten until he mentioned it.

"I am fine," I replied. I may limp for the rest of my life, but I am fine.

"You appeared distressed."

"Not distressed. Only slightly pained."

"I meant earlier. You appeared to be in distress—searching for someone."

"I wasn't," I said perhaps too curtly.

"I thought perhaps you needed me."

"I didn't," I said most certainly too curtly.

"Of course not," Darcy said with equal curtness.

I should tell him what has happened. He could probably find her easily in the crowd. He is so tall, he has a much better view but . . . .

I don't want to fess up to my negligence. I should have kept my eye on her, I should have paid attention. Yet I never expected her to wander off. I am certain she could not have gone far. If I could just find her before Darcy notices—

"Where is Dora?"

Damn him. Damn him to the bloodiest circle of bloody hell.

"Who?" I asked with absolute innocence because it's always worth a try.

Darcy regarded me as a strict parent would regard a naughty child, or at least I assumed so. I cannot be sure, I never had a strict parent.

"I have misplaced her. Momentarily," I admitted.

Darcy's lips formed an indulgent sort of half-smile. Perhaps things are not so dire after all.

Teasingly he said, "It is becoming a habit with you, losing my cousins."

Ah, so he had heard about that.

"I did not really lose Belinda, whatever your aunt may say. We were playing a game. It is hardly my fault she found such an effective hiding spot and promptly fell asleep in it."

"Yes, but perhaps it was not necessary for you to tell my aunt you had sold her daughter to a chimney sweep," Darcy chided. He and I have very different definitions of 'necessary'.

"Belinda was not five minutes missing when Mrs. Vane fixed me with that lethal glare you Darcys are so adept at and said, 'If you have lost her my kindness to you is henceforth over.' She used henceforth in a sentence unironically whilst suggesting she has ever been kind to me—"

"Come now, she has smiled at you at least once," said Darcy.

"Oh yes, she has given me a Darcy smile. The sort of smile that makes you wonder if the smiler is only slightly nauseated by you or is possibly contemplating hunting you for your hide."

"We Darcys cannot be as bad as all that."

I raised my brow in a mocking portrayal of that supercilious thing he is always doing with his eyebrows. He seemed to find it amusing.

"So you see it _was_ necessary," I said, returning to the original topic, "There could be no other response to such an over dramatic threat."

"Yes, the obvious solution for overreaction is to create more drama."

"She deserved it, I had to bait her. She should know by now I am jesting. Besides, Belinda is far too large to climb all but the grandest of chimneys and in another year even those will be beyond her. No business minded sweep would make such a poor investment."

Darcy chuckled. I felt inordinately proud of myself for having elicited that chuckle. I felt prouder still when he said, "You are glorious."

I was stunned by his announcement and for a full half minute was not capable of speech at all. Then, not wanting to show how deeply his words had affected me, I said flippantly, "Finally you notice."

"I have noticed before now. Long have I realized that you are . . . ."

Brilliant?

Gorgeous?

Hilariously witty?

Seriously, Mr. Darcy what am I? I must know. But he trailed off frustratingly, clearly lost for what to say next.

Yet he had said glorious. I had never felt myself to be glorious before, but I would certainly take it. It was more than I had hoped for. The exhilaration that compliment had caused within me should shame me, however it just made me want more.

But I could not let it show.

"As much as I would love to wait here for you to extol my many virtues, perhaps it is time to find Dora?"

Darcy looked relived at my change of subject, as if he had said more than he had wished.

"Yes, we should find her."

" _I_ will find her," I replied waspishly. Why had I spoken so sharply? What is wrong with me?

In a more regulated tone I added, "She is my responsibility."

"She is no more your responsibility than mine," Darcy said.

I fidgeted with the lace on my gown unwilling to meet his eye knowing that he must be regarding me with a look of confused amusement. I was acting strangely, first prickly and now suddenly as timid as Belinda and Henrietta's governess.

"I do not wish to trouble you." Now I even sounded like little Miss Hopkins.

"It is no trouble," Darcy said. And yes, there it was, that look of amused bemusement dancing in his eyes. I knew how he would react to things. The expressions he would make, the words he would speak. I was beginning to know _him_. It was terrible. I must make my escape.

"I will find her. _On my own,"_ I said in a tone that quelled all argument. And then I turned and flounced away in a haughty manner that would have been far more impressive if I had not needed to hobble slightly because of my injured foot.

* * *

 **5 minutes later**

Dora must be outside on the balcony. That is the only place I have left to search. And if the conspicuous absence of the (supposedly) Honorable Mr. Farthingham is any indication, Dora must be on the balcony—unchaperoned—with a suitor.

I am the worst chaperon in the world.

To make everything even more terrible than it already is, Sir Sebastian (the man) is currently blocking the French doors that lead to the balcony, meaning I will have to have some manner of interaction with him if I am to find Dora.

In an effort to avoid scandal I have been trying to avoid him (a more difficult task than one would expect). Yet I cannot let him or anyone else think I am avoiding him because to avoid him is to admit guilt. However not to avoid him is to _be_ guilty because, though I have no particular feelings for the gentleman, it has become apparent he has a special fondness for me or at least wishes to give the impression that he does. Probably more likely the latter. Charming as I am, I think he just enjoys stirring trouble.

"Good evening," I greeted Sir Sebastian, trying to sound polite but not encouraging.

"Isn't it?" he replied cheerfully.

"No, it really isn't, actually. You see, I've lost Dora—"

"Not to worry. Miss Darcy is outside."

"Lovely, so could you just move so I can—"

"Why have you been avoiding me, _Mrs_. Darcy?" asked Sir Sebastian with emphasis on my martial status. I have come to the conclusion he enjoys flirting with married ladies. What must be a thrill for him could mean absolute ruin for me. A trouble stirrer. That is what he is. Handsome, charming but a trouble stirrer. Why did life have to have so many complications?

"I had things I needed to attend to." I said in the most monitory, Darcy-like tone I could muster.

"What things?" he pressed.

"I've been very busy."

"With what?" Handsome he may be, but good at taking a hint he most certainly is not. I felt my irritation rise.

"With planning a ball, and being a proper chaperon—a mostly adequate chaperon—and not being at all scandalous. And in deference to that latter point, please move, I need to collect Dora."

"I am afraid I cannot. I am playing lookout for Farthingham whilst he romances your lovely Miss Darcy."

"Move," I ordered with sudden urgency.

"They are not up to anything salacious. He is showing her moths."

"Moths?"

"Yes," Sir Sebastian replied simply, as if viewing moths on a balcony during a ball was a perfectly reasonable activity.

"It is December. I have never seen a moth or any other insect in December."

In the sort of breezy tone accomplished liars use to speak absolute nonsense, Sir Sebastian said, "They are rare Arctic lunar moths seen only on wintry nights during—"

"Move," I interrupted, " _Now_."

Seeing he had no intention of moving, I fixed upon him with the Penetrating Stare of Madness. Just as I began to despair that I had lost my talent for ocular intimidation his lips trembled—though admittedly that might have been from holding back laughter—and he moved.

I stepped around him, reaching for the door. Sir Sebastian followed me onto the balcony.

"Go back," I ordered as I tried to nudge him back through the door.

"No, I need air. It is so hot, I think I will swoon," he said letting his weight fall into me as pushed against him.

I turned abruptly away from him and was pleased to hear his feet shuffle across the stone frantically in an effort to prevent himself from falling. The balcony was not large and as I gazed across it, my eyes adjusting to the poor light, I was able to perceive two figures seated on a bench placed conveniently in the deepest of the shadows.

"Dora?" I called.

The lady surged to her feet at once and darted to my side, looking a little guilty. Even she knew this was not an appropriate place to be found alone with a gentleman.

"We were just talking," said Mr. Farthingham. He probably was not lying, there had been a proper amount of space between them and neither he nor Dora appeared disheveled or flushed, however I was not willing let him off easily.

I unleashed The Stare upon him. Gratifyingly it worked instantly.

"I am sorry. It was irresponsible of me taking Miss Darcy out here. It will never happen again," he babbled.

I nodded once to show my acceptance of his apology, then, grasping Dora gently by the arm, I said, "Come along."

The heat of the ballroom felt even more oppressive after having been out in the crisp winter air. Our reentry did not go unnoticed, I felt the eyes of half the room following us as we made our way over to Jane and Mrs. Rose. As much as I did not like their scrutiny, it was better if the gossips noted my return with Dora rather than my exit with Sir Sebastian.

Unfortunately Sir Sebastian did not seem to share my dread of becoming the subject of one of Lady Whisperton's witticisms. He appeared at my side not three minutes later, greeting me with far too much cheer and familiarity. Mr. Farthingham, who had followed his friend, made a very formal bow to me before lowering himself into the chair next to Dora all the while eyeing me cautiously as if I might seize Mrs. Rose's cane and start beating him about the head with it.

That was far more likely to be his friend's fate.

"Go away, Sir Sebastian," I said, interrupting him mid-flirt. I was beyond civility at this point. "You are going to get me in trouble."

"With your husband?" he asked, seeming far too keen on the idea.

"With everyone. You will have seen mention of our imaginary affair in the gossip papers no doubt."

"I never bother with gossip sheets." There was a certain glint in his eyes that told me he was lying. He probably cuts out all the mentions of himself he can find and papers his walls with them.

I did not have time for this annoying man (I cannot believe I ever found him charming). The current set is coming to an end and here Jane sits with no partner for the next and there, on the other side of the room far, far away, stands Mr. Bingley staring at her as though she were his saving grace yet making no move to navigate his way across the massive sea of people to her.

I needed to think of some excuse that would require us to walk in Bingley's direction. A plausible excuse, because Jane will never come with me if she realizes what I was about. Every time I try to get them together she accuses me of trying to "force an unwanted acquaintance upon him." Unwanted acquaintance indeed! Where she got such an idea I do not know, but this whole misunderstanding ends tonight.

No matter what Darcy has said to Mr. Bingley it has not crushed Bingley's affection for Jane, that much is obvious. If I could just get them to talk I know all would be well.

But first I have to get rid of Sir Sebastian.

"You know, there are other young ladies here—ladies who are not married. There is one right there— Miss Bingley—do you know her? I could make an introduction."

"I only have eyes for one lady," Sir Sebastian declared with much insinuation.

"Then perhaps you need spectacles."

"Just one dance, and I will leave you alone for the rest of the evening. You have my word."

It was a tempting offer. I do love to dance and I did believe he would keep to his word. Despite his penchant for making trouble, he seemed like a man of honor (if one is willing to ignore the whole serial adulterer thing). But it would do my reputation no good to be seen dancing with him.

"I must stay with Dora, and Dora does not dance." I really must find her some dancing lessons if we are to bring her out properly, but presently I am grateful for her lack of knowledge in this area.

"Farthingham will look after her."

"I think she as seen quite enough moths for one evening," I retorted.

Sir Sebastain, apparently losing all sense, dropped down upon his knees beside me and said,"Please, please, _pleeeeease_ , Mrs. Darcy have mercy. I am begging—nay dying, for your affection. Only you can save me with your sweet attentions."

All conversation around us had halted. People were openly staring at the scene and such a scene it was. I wonder if being slapped in the face was the type of sweet attention Sir Sebastian was hoping for.

"Sir, get off the floor. Your behavior lacks dignity," I whispered at him, seething. I had still not ruled out striking him.

"One dance?"

"No!"

"I will not rise until you agree to dance this set with me."

"Then you will be a long time kneeling, for this set belongs to me."

Oh thank goodness. Darcy. I never thought I would be so happy to see him and his bored/irritated/tired/condescending/haughty face.


	16. A Reversal of Fond Feelings

**19th December 1811**

Accepting Darcy's proffered arm, I stepped around Sir Sebastian as he sat there on the floor looking quite stupid.

Darcy and I made our way to the dance floor amidst a sussurant uproar.

"They are all whispering about us."

"How conceited you are," Darcy said. I was relieved to see a grin on his face. "They are all aflutter about the dance. It is to be a waltz."

"A waltz," I squeaked, sounding once again like Miss Hopkins. I had heard of the waltz of course. A scandalous Continental dance, hardly something the mild Mrs. Hamilton would allow to be danced in her home.

"Do you know how to waltz?" Darcy asked as we took our place.

"Of course not. I am a good girl."

Darcy's brow rose. "Are you?"

"Sir Sebastian's preposterous behavior was not my fault," I hissed.

"I realize that," Darcy replied patiently, "I saw him accost you. You did not appear encouraging in the least."

Somewhat mollified, I consented to let him place my left hand on his shoulder while he clasped my right hand in his own.

"How we are meant to dance whilst standing so indecently close?" I asked.

"The distance is hardly indecent. Another person could stand in the space between us."

"That would certainly be indecent. I cannot believe Mrs. Hamilton requested this dance."

Darcy grinned no doubt amused by my rustic conventions. "It is becoming more acceptable. I have seen it danced at other balls.

Alarmed, I asked, "You have not danced it yourself?"

"No, but I think I am equal to the task."

Wonderful, neither of us knows what we are doing. Now I am certain we will make fools of ourselves. And we will do so very obviously. There are fewer couples on the floor as this is certainly not a dance for unmarried ladies. With that in mind I cast a glance toward the far side of the room. Thankfully I found Dora and Jane respectably stowed with Mrs. Rose where I had left them.

My foot still twinges a bit from its earlier crushing and I am self-conscious of the people looking at us—for all Darcy might tease me about my conceit they _are_ looking at us—however right as I am poised to beg off the musicians strike the first chord.

"You will have to let me lead," Darcy said as we glided along. Glided is perhaps the wrong word as we were moving rather woodenly.

I tried to relax. Really there is a proper distance between us. And, though his arm is at my back in a sort of a cautious embrace he is wearing gloves so any suggestion by my brain that I can feel the heat searing through my gown is pure fancy. I _can_ be near him without losing my head entirely.

To distract myself from my traitorous thoughts, I observed the dance. However scandalous it might be, the waltz did make for a beautiful display, the ladies' skirts sweeping gracefully over the floor as they whirled, their jewels sparkling as they caught the light of the candles.

"Sorry, my fault," Darcy said as I stumbled mid-step, jolting out of my reverie.

It had not been his fault at all, yet I could not stop myself from teasing him. "You are very clumsy, sir. People cannot know what I endure."

Darcy smiled. "Yes, it is a pity isn't it? I am however handsome and rich, and surely that is all that matters to ladies."

"Ladies who think that is all that matters do not consider their toes."

"Are you injured?" Darcy asked seriously. "Should we stop?"

"No, I am fine," I insisted. My foot did ache, but I had no wish to stop. The dance was exhilarating.

Almost as soon as I declared my soundness I stumbled again. This time it was not my foot which betrayed me, rather another coupled had veered into our path necessitating I release Darcy and dodge lest I be crushed. My maneuver would have been successful had Darcy not tried to move with me. Instead of colliding with the other couple, I crashed bodily into Darcy, which I suppose might be considered a more desirable outcome.

I stabilized myself using him as an anchor, one hand catching the front of his coat, the other hand finding itself somehow on his derriere. Where it remained. For several seconds. After which I removed both hands from his person and made frantic, unintelligible apologies.

"If you are truly uninjured, I can only conclude this blundering is done with intent, Elizabeth," said Darcy his voice rich with amusement.

I felt my cheeks flame. "That is a most ungentlemanly insinuation."

"An honest assessment of most unladylike conduct, more like. If you are going to paw at me you should at least wait until we are in privacy," Darcy said in a low whispered, his lips nearly touching my ear. We had come to rest in the middle of the dance floor, the dancers still twirling dizzyingly around us.

"You should not be so cruel to me. I know where you sleep." I had intended to be foreboding, but my words had come out in a strange half-strangled whisper.

"You know where I sleep," he repeated, brow quizzical as ever.

"That was supposed to be a threat."

"Indeed?"

"I am intimating I will do some manner of violence to you when you are vulnerable. Smother you I suppose."

"Ah," he said with a smile, then lowering his lips to my ear once more, he whispered, "If attempted murder is what it takes to get you into my bed, I suppose I will have to take my chances. I am a light sleeper."

This shocking comment produced a strange sensation in my loins. Like a stomach ache only lower and rather pleasing. So not like a stomach ache at all, actually.

"We should return to the dance," I said, because what reply could I possibly make to that roguish remark?

"Are you truly steady now or should I anticipate my person being subjected to additional trespass?"

"I will not falter again," I said with irritated embarrassment.

As he led us back into the dance he whispered, so quietly it was barely audible, "A pity."

"You could visit me," I said, after a long silence. Why I mentioned it I do not know. I have no wish to do . . . _that_ with a man who has (probably) actively interfered with my sister's happiness. Also I still do not know if he hates kittens and/or sunshine.

"You know where I sleep as well," I explain, in response to his bemusement.

"I do, but after the last time I did not wish to frighten you."

"I was not frightened."

"Forgive me, I meant I did not wish to further disgust you with my enormous deformity."

I laughed, then winced. My foot had once again given out.

"You must sit down," Darcy insisted.

I did not argue this time. I could not help but limp slightly as he led me back to Jane and Dora.

Once I was seated he knelt down before me.

"What are you doing? It is not broken," I exclaimed as Darcy removed my slipper and began gently pressing upon my toes. It was too ridiculous that I should have two different gentlemen kneeling before me in one evening.

"It does not feel broken," he said.

"I told you it was not."

"Shall we leave?"

I nearly assented before I spotted Mr. Bingley moving our way. Thinking of Jane and my yet to be realized plans, I replied, "No, I can stay a little longer."

"What has happened to Miss Elizabeth?" Mr. Bingley asked upon reaching us.

" _Mrs. Darcy_ 's foot was trod on," Darcy replied.

"Well done, Darcy."

Darcy narrowed his eyes but his annoyance was false, he had been more put out by his friend's mistaken use of my maiden name than by the implication he had injured me himself.

Returning his attention to me he asked, "Can I get you something? A drink?"

Mr. Bingley immediately offered to go in his stead.

"No, Darcy, can do it," I said, "He needs to make amends for being so clumsy on the dance floor."

That remark earned me a Lizzy Specific Glare. I grinned madly back at him. He rolled his eyes. A Glare and an eye roll! I am glorious indeed. I realize I am flirting with him again, but this will be remedied later I am certain. Surely one of us will do something to reverse any fond feelings that might develop during this peaceful interlude.

Darcy made an offer to fetch drinks for the other ladies as well then went off in search of refreshment. Against all my hopes, Bingley spent the entirety of Darcy's absence speaking to myself and Mrs. Rose, making just one perfunctory comment to Jane.

Upon his return Darcy gave me reason to regret my earlier flirtation. He started looking at me like I was cake. Husband or not, it was inappropriate that he should be watching me with that hungry, blazing intensity in so public a place. However, enormous deformity notwithstanding, I was beginning to wonder if visiting his bedchamber with non-murderous intentions might be enjoyable. The waltz was a dangerous dance indeed.

I nervously sipped my drink, barely tasting the sweetness of the wine.

"Another?" Darcy asked when I had finished.

"No, I have had two this evening. I should stop."

"Two or Two?" he asked teasingly, holding up three fingers. At first I did not know what he was referring to, then I recalled our wedding night.

" _Two_."

He chuckled at my irritation. At the sound of his rich, deep laugh I felt that loin warming ache-that-was-not-an-ache I had expericence earlier. It should be illegal for a gentleman who could be so infuriating to also be so appealing.

The set came to an end and a country dance was called next.

"Jane, should not you be dancing?" I asked, a cunning idea suddenly coming to mind.

"I do not have a partner for this set," then realizing my intentions too late she added, "Oh, Lizzy".

Ignoring her chiding expression, I announced, casually as if to our group in general though it was meant for one gentleman in particular, "Jane hasn't had much opportunity to dance. There are not enough young men here tonight."

The desired response was immediate.

"Would you care to dance, Miss Bennet?"

Unfortunately it was asked by the entirely wrong gentleman. What was Darcy playing at? He must know what I was trying to accomplish. Oh, yes, I realized coming to my senses, of course he knew. Remember what I said earlier about one of us doing something to reverse fond feelings? Well, here it was.

"Do you wish to invalid her as you have me?" I asked.

Darcy's eyes narrowed, this time his irritation was not false, there was not the slightest indication of good humor in his gaze.

"No, I cannot think Jane would wish to dance with you," I continued heedless of his growing ire, "Mr. Bingley should dance with her if he does not have a partner for this set."

Mr. Bingley sputtered. "I—well—yes. Miss Bennet would you do me the honor?"

"No!" Jane said far too fervently, "I mean to say, I should stay with you Lizzy."

"Absolutely not. I have Dora and Mrs. Rose and Darcy to keep me company I shall not perish from loneliness in the half hour you are away dancing."

I, however, might perish from the Glare Darcy is giving me. This is the worst one yet.

Mr. Bingley offered his arm, Jane hesitated for a moment.

"Go," I urged.

Finally she took his arm and he led her off to join the dancing.

Defiantly I turned to meet the glare I knew Darcy must be throwing my way. However he was not looking my way, most intentionally. He pushed himself away from the wall and with a bow to Mrs. Rose and Dora (but notably not to me) he said, "Please excuse me." The he stalked off.

I had just received the cut direct from my own husband.

 _Oh bloody hell._

* * *

 **After the Ball.**

"Might I speak to you before you retire, Elizabeth?" Darcy asked upon our entry to Darcy house.

I consented though I knew this could not be good. The carriage ride back from the ball had been awkward. I had expected Darcy's unhappiness but even Jane was silently sullen. Dora was uncharacteristically talkative, cheerily reciting all the topics she and Mr. Farthingham had discussed, insensible to the general atmosphere of gloominess.

With envy I watched Jane and Dora mount the stairs to their chambers while I stood on the landing of the first floor, waiting as Darcy lit the lamps in his study. I wanted to go to bed. I wanted to put off this discussion for another day. This argument, I should say. It was certainly going to be an argument. A grizzly one if the wrath radiating from Darcy was any indication.

"Come in," Darcy said. He gestured for me to sit in the chair he had placed across from his desk. I was being called to the carpet like I was a naughty schoolboy and he the grim headmaster.

I sat, but I refused to appear ashamed or cowed. Before I could grow frightened under his menacing scrutiny I said, "If you are going to scold me about arranging that dance for Mr. Bingley and Jane you might as well hold your tongue."

"Because you know how badly you behaved and my breath would be wasted?" He smiled but his eyes held no warmth.

"I did not behave badly in the least. Or if I did—and I will concede I made things slightly awkward—my bad behavior was necessary to counteract your bad behavior."

"My—" he began, but I did not let him continue.

"I know you have said something to Mr. Bingley, something to make him abandon his pursuit of Jane."

I had not realized until this moment how badly I wanted to be wrong. Because I like him. And not only in a lustful way. I like how kind he is to his relations, how considerate he is of his servants. I like his sharp humor, his superior intellect, and his utterly devastating smile.

I like this horrible, horrible man.

"Can you deny it?" I knew he could not, yet I pleaded for him to do so anyway.

"I cannot deny it and I have no wish to do so," he said harshly, shattering all hope. "Bingley asked my opinion on the matter, I told him the truth."

"And what 'truth' was that?"

"That your sister is indifferent to his advances."

"Indifferent! You think Jane is indifferent to Mr. Bingley?" I asked with great surprise.

"I observed her most carefully. While she is certainly flattered by his attentions, she shows no greater regard for him than any other gentleman. I would call that indifference."

"Oh, indeed," I agreed sarcastically. "Are you certain your observations were not tainted by your own prejudice?"

Frustratingly, he had the gall to ask, "To what prejudice do you refer?"

"Come now, you have never bothered to pretend. It is obvious you think my family beneath you. Perhaps you wished to save your friend from the misfortune of such low connections."

"While I cannot be said to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections, it was not Jane's undesirable circumstances which influenced my conclusions. Her own impassivity paired with your mother's—and much to my embarrassment—your own indecorous insistence in forwarding the match led me to believe there could be no happiness in a union between Bingley and your sister."

"My indecorous insistence!" It was not enough for him to speak of my inferior connections and undesirable circumstances he had to make this outrageous accusation as well.

"Indeed, I cannot comprehend it. While your mother certainly made clear an advantageous match was most desirable for one of her daughters—necessary even, I do not know why you, having accomplished that essential task, feel the need to push your own sister into a marriage for the sake of mercenary considerations."

"Is this what you think of me? That I would do such a thing, place wealth over the happiness of my sister and push her to make a match with a man she is merely indifferent to?"

"I do not wish to think thusly of you, however from your behavior of late I can only concluded—

"Really?" I screeched interrupting him, "That is the _only_ conclusion you can come to? And I thought you were clever. Did you ever consider that perhaps you do not know my sister as well as I do? That she perhaps does not display her feelings as openly as others but nonetheless feels deeply.

"And she does feel deeply about Mr. Bingley, though why she should ever care for a man stupid enough to be persuaded out of his affection for her I do not know. She thinks _he_ never cared for her—that she is some unwanted acquaintance, which is why she has been distancing herself from him. It was not you who put such falsehoods into her head, was it?" I asked suspiciously.

"I have not said anything to your sister," Darcy replied gravely.

"Yes. _Quite_. You would not wish to speak to someone so inferior to you. It is a miracle you speak to me, but I suppose I am a Darcy, however much you might wish otherwise."

Darcy opened his mouth as if to argue. Then closed it. I was still clinging to hope he would make it all better. Silly of me. As if there was some phrase he could offer in apology that would change anything that had passed between us. There could be no apology for his words.

"You must excuse me," I said hardly managing to hold back my tears, "I cannot bear to look at you a moment longer."


	17. He Who Must Not Be Named

**ilex-ferox** **thank you for the research suggestion. I never dreamed the waltz was so different then. This will change the dance scene in the previous** **chapter considerably. I will update it later.**

 **If anyone else notices any historical errors or has any other suggestions please feel free to mention them in the comments. Obviously the language used (especially Lizzy's) is sometimes intentionally modern for comedic effect but I am otherwise trying to keep true to the period as much as possible.**

* * *

 **2** **3** **rd** **December 1811**

Jane says the most absurd things sometimes.

Like just a moment ago when He Who Must Not Be Named entered the room and ever-so-casually took a muffin from the sideboard and then ever-so-slowly buttered it even though I know he had already taken breakfast because I had my maid go speak to his valet and make sure he had eaten so I would not have to break my fast with him because the very sight of him makes me want to scream, but of course—oh, of course—he had to come strolling in as if he owned the room (which of course he does, but no matter) and start lavishly buttering things with indecent slowness as if everything were perfectly normal and he had not a care in the world and did not notice at all that I was silently seething, which of course he _did_ notice because he looked right at me all impassively as though I am the unreasonable one—me!

Anyway . . . what was I saying? Oh yes, Jane—

Jane said, "Good morning, Mr. Darcy."

Patently absurd.

That person—whose name I had specifically asked her not to speak in my presence because the very mention of it causes me homicidal rage—is incapable of having a good morning even if anyone should sincerely wish him one (and why Jane who has the most to accuse him of should do so I do not know) and though she certainly sounded sincere she could not possibly have been because I had just finished sharing with her the extent of his perfidy and even she—all goodness and sweetness that she is—could not be anything but incensed by it.

Yet she did say it. And he replied, "Good morning, Miss Bennet . . . Elizabeth."

Outrageous.

And then he said, "I am going to be in the library this morning if you need me."

As if I would possibly need him. Fortunately after making this declaration he quit the room, taking his overly buttered muffin with him.

"You spoke to him!" I said accusingly to Jane.

"Of course I spoke to him. As should you."

I scoffed.

"At some point you are going to have to talk to him."

As I mentioned earlier, sometimes my dear older sister really does say the most absurd things.

"I have not spoken to him for three days and our marriage has never been better."

Jane shook her head. "I cannot believe you are shunning him over such minor injuries."

"Minor injuries! He implied our family is inferior—"

"Lizzy, our family _is_ socially inferior to—" she began but I could not let her continue.

"He did not mean social standing, not only social standing at least."

"Can you know what he meant? Did you ask him?"

"I did not need to ask him, the implications were there in his scornful tone."

"I will agree it would have been better—kinder of him not to have said it, but you cannot deny the truth Lizzy."

It as if she has not known me all my life.

"I can deny whatever I like."

"You should allow him the chance to apologize."

"There can be no apology. If it was a matter of mere insults perhaps— _perhaps_ —I might be persuaded to hear his apologies but it is what he _did_ that makes it all unforgivable and I cannot believe you could greet him so serenely given his offenses against you."

"It was easy because I do not see that he has committed any offenses against me."

I sighed internally. That was such an absurdly Jane thing to say.

"How can you say that? Do you not understand what I just told you?" I asked perhaps more condescendingly than I meant to.

"You might be the clever one, Lizzy, but I am capable of comprehending most things," she said with surprising severity, then with more composure, "Yes, I understood perfectly what you said. I had been behaving indifferently toward Mr. Bingley with intention so you cannot fault Mr. Darcy for thinking me indifferent."

"Why were you behaving indifferently to Mr. Bingley?" I asked keenly. This question had been the entire purpose of this conversation, the deal we had struck. I would tell her about why I had been avoiding my husband if she would explain the secret reason she was being strange around Mr. Bingley.

"As I have told you before, I did not wish to press and unwanted acquaintance upon him."

"And as I have told you before, that is complete nonsense," I replied. She was not going to evade the question this time, I would have the truth. "Why would Mr. Bingley ask Dar—that person—if he thought you cared for him if he did not care for you?"

"Perhaps he was worried my affection was greater than his and was trying to spare my feelings."

I rolled my eyes. In just a few weeks I had acquired several bad habits from He Who Shall Not Be Named. But some statements just begged for an eye roll in reply.

"Jane, that is ridiculous and you know it. Now tell me what has caused you to believe such silly notions?"

"I do not think I should tell you. It does not matter now anyway."

"We had an agreement," I pressed. She had wheedled her way out of telling me the truth for the last time.

"I do not wish to place you in an awkward position."

I laughed hollowly. "I am an unwanted wife whose faults and mishaps are aired weekly in the scandal sheets, I do not think my position can get any more awkward."

When she did not immediately speak I asked, "It was not my husband who put these misconceptions into your head, was it?"

He told me he had not. If he lied to me it would completely shatter everything. This thought gave me great pain. I was surprised to feel thusly. I had not known there was anything left to shatter.

"No, it was not Mr. Darcy."

"Who then?"

Jane shook her head.

"I explained my predicament now you must reciprocate. You promised."

Again she shook her head.

"Jane," I urged, "If I am to believe D—You Know Who—is not the primary villain in this tale you must tell me who is."

"There is no villain, Lizzy. It is all just a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding on my part. I wanted to believe Mr. Bingley cared for me but I was wrong."

I sighed again very audibly this time. "You were not wrong. Now _tell me who_."

"Miss Bingley sent me a letter after they left Netherfield."

Miss Bingley, of course. I stared at Jane expectantly, silently urging her to continue.

"She told me—well, she just implied really—that Mr. Bingley would soon be engaged to Miss Georgiana Darcy."

I gasped. It was such an outrageous falsehood. "And you believed her?"

"I did not, that is to say I did not _dis_ believe her, but I thought perhaps, in her enthusiasm to have a closer connection to a friend she so greatly admired, she had imagined a deeper friendship between her brother and Miss Darcy than was truly present. I felt she must be mistaken because it had seemed as though Mr. Bingley had singled me out—"

"He had."

"—and he would not have done so if his affections were already engaged."

"Exactly."

"But her words put me on my guard. I was determined to observe objectively Mr. Bingley's behavior to myself as well as to Miss Darcy. And what I found was . . . what I found—oh Lizzy I am so embarrassed, I must have seemed so ridiculous, so conceited to everyone in Meryton. But I had thought—I had so believed he cared for me."

Unable to stop myself I exploded,"He does care for you!" It was with great self-control I kept from adding, "you ridiculous goose."

"I know that is what you want to believe because you want me to be happy."

I can now concur with what Belinda told me just yesterday; elder sisters are exhausting.

"It is not a matter of what I want to believe it is what is actually the truth. Bingley cares for you. From what I can see he has the exact amount of affection for Georgiana that any gentleman would have for the much younger sister of a friend—a detached, cautious regard. His manner toward her conveys the utmost respect but nothing more."

Jane was already shaking her head before I had finished. "What about last Tuesday?" she asked.

My social calendar is so full I can barely remember what I did yesterday much less last Tuesday.

"I recall nothing significant about Tuesday and if Mr. Bingley had declared his undying love for Georgiana you would think I would remember."

"We went to the museum," Jane said, ignoring my sarcasm.

"Yes, we went to the museum." I wanted to add, "Where Bingley attentively guided you around, for the most part ignoring the rest of us," but I am certain she would have some way to dismiss this fact in her determination to ruin her own happiness.

"Mr. Bingley was very insistent that Miss Darcy come with us if you will remember."

If this was her evidence of Bingley's secret _tendre_ I really was going to have to throw something at her.

"Yes, he was," I agreed, casually reaching for my now empty breakfast plate. The plate was light enough not to cause any permanent injury but significant enough to jolt her out of this idiocy. Who am I kidding? It would probably bounce right off her head, everything else seemed to.

I waited for her to elaborate. People must be given every chance to come to their senses before one starts chucking plates at them. A precipitously tossed plate is the portent of the end of a civilized society.

Jane nodded emphatically as if her point had been made.

"Did he pass her a love letter? Steal a kiss? You better have something more than his insistence that she visit the museum with us."

With a defiant gleam in her eye she said, "He was _very_ insistent."

What did I do to deserve so many impossible people in my life?

Do not answer that.

"He gave her all the encouragement one would give a shy child. He has known Dar—that man I happen to be married to—for a few years now. When he met Georgiana she was just a girl, I do not think he has ever stopped thinking of her as such.

"He insisted she go for her own good not from any special desire to be in her presence. He barely spoke to her! And of course it was obvious Mrs. Annesley wished to go and she could only do so if Georgiana went. Perhaps it is Mrs. Annesley he is in love with. She is quite a lot older than Mr. Bingley—that must be why they keep it quiet. Think of the scandal! Miss Bingley will be devastated should it get out."

"You are being ridiculous," said Jane.

"No, you are! Mr. Bingley is considerate toward everyone, but he is affectionate only to you. If he has been inattentive to you of late it is because you have rebuffed him, not because of any alteration of his feelings."

It was difficult for me to admit this but it was true. I had ignored Jane's purposeful indifference because it conflicted with my own schemes. And I had preferred to place the blame firmly on Darcy.

Jane still appeared doubtful, but before I could present additional evidence (or throw any plates) Georgiana entered the room.

"Georgiana! You are exactly the person to settle this little disagreement," I exclaimed before I had time to considered my words. Georgiana was immediately discomposed. She clearly did not wish to be put in the middle of a disagreement and certainly would be further discomposed by the question I intended to ask her. It was a question I needed to put very delicately. Hmmmm . . . how to word it?

"Are you currently engaged or likely to become engaged to Mr. Bingley?"

My sister-in-law's shock was profound. "Wha—no! No, I'm not. Why would you ask that?"

"I am sorry to put it so bluntly, but Miss Bingley wrote to Jane expressing her joy at the prospect of soon calling you sister."

Georgiana's visage did not display confusion or astonishment as I thought it might, rather her expression was of unsurprised exasperation. "Oh, _Caroline,"_ she said wearily.

I had thought Georgiana unaware of her friend's malicious nature. Apparently not.

"Please do not judge Caroline. She is not a bad person," Georgiana said.

"Of course not," said Jane.

I said nothing. I felt my brow raise skeptically. I was doing the Darcy haughty eyebrow thing. I could not help it. It was a particularly apt expression for this situation.

"She is really quite sweet and entertaining once you get to know her. She simply has a few unfortunate aspirations," Georgiana continued.

"Such as having a familial connection to the Darcys any way she possibly can?" I asked.

"Yes."

"So there is nothing to it then? No secret romance between you and Mr. Bingley?"

"No, indeed. You have heard him. He talks to me as though I were Henrietta's age. There are no special feelings on his part. As for my feelings for him, well, he is a perfectly amiable gentleman but he is so . . . just so . . . kind," she finished lamely.

I knew what she wanted to say. Mr. Bingley _is_ kind. But also dull. And inoffensive—almost to the point of tediousness. And a little soppy.

Imagine being married to such a man! I would rather be married to Darcy—

I **am** married to Dar—that person. I certainly had not forgotten. And I did not mean that. I certainly would rather be married to Mr. Bingley. Not Jane's Mr. Bingley, obviously. But _a_ Mr. Bingley.

Everything would be so much simpler with a man like Bingley. No wounded feelings. Fewer arguments. Less desire to stab people.

Unless it was myself. Out of pure boredom.

I did not mean that. I am not one of those silly girls who likes dangerous men—who needs constant excitement lest they do something stupid just for the thrill of it.

But my husband is not dangerous. He is challenging, to be sure, but perhaps I would not wish to have my way in everything anyway.

I do not like this line of thinking. It is beginning to sound as though Mr. Darcy is not completely horrible. Which of course he is. Obviously. Although—

No. Absolutely no althoughs. He _is_ completely horrible. But he is not dull. And I must admit now that this Jane-Bingley fiasco was not entirely his fault. Miss Bingley and Mr. Bingley and even Jane herself must share blame.

But what he said about my family! I am not forgiving him for that! I. Am. _Not_. Never ever. And his insinuation that I made myself ridiculous trying to push Jane and Bingley together—well, that is just . . . entirely true.

But see if I ever admit it.

"So there you have it, Jane," I said triumphantly, "No impending engagement between Mr. Bingley and Georgiana. It was a misrepresentation by Miss Bingley that I am sure was just a mistake and not at all malicious in intention."

"I know it seems like pure vindictiveness—and I really cannot believe she would . . .oh, _Caroline_ —but she isn't a monster . . . in most circumstances. I am sure she thought she was doing the right thing."

Seeing my furious expression Georgiana quickly added, "Not that I think it was the right thing! However I am sure she thought she was protecting her brother. Charles is just so . . . ."

"Kind?" I suggested with a wry grin. I knew what she wanted to say. Mr. Bingley is just such a malleable idiot.

"Yes, and because he is so kind sometimes people take advantage of him and I think it has caused Caroline to be a bit over protective. I know Charles had shown a marked interest in one particular lady in Hertfordshire. Louisa let slip that the lady was you, Miss Bennet. Having met you, I know Caroline's fears must have been unfounded but she thought . . . well, that is not for me to explain. Just do not think too ill of her, she did what she did out of love for Charles."

"Yes, I am sure it had nothing to do with a desire not to be connected with a lady who has one uncle in trade and another employed as a mere country solicitor."

"Well . . . ." said Georgiana, trialing off as she grasped for a way to defend her friend's snobbery.

"It is all right, everyone has faults," I said. I was feeling particularly magnanimous having finally proved to Jane that Mr. Bingley was indeed in love with her and no one else.

"Did you come here for something before I rudely put you on the spot?" I asked suddenly curious. I knew she had already taken her meal. She always took breakfast early then spent the rest of the morning at her instrument.

"Oh, yes. I've lost Belinda and Henrietta and I was hoping you might help me look for them."

Miss Hopkins had requested a day off to visit her sister. Georgiana, in an act of reckless bravery, had volunteered to play governess today in her stead.

"Of course, I am sure I can discover them quickly enough. Do not interrupt your meal, Jane," I added as she made a movement as if to stand, "I will not need help."

I have a special talent for finding the Vane sisters. This probably has something to do with the fact that when I do find them I do not make them converse in French (my own French is quite hopeless) or practice their sketching (I never learned to draw and I have got on just fine, thank you), or play the harp (neither girl has much in the way of musical inclination and I think to force a student to learn only leads to musicians like Mary whose technically sound performances somehow give no joy to the listener).

Instead I leave Henrietta to her novels and Belinda to her gruesome histories and thus they do not mind being found by me at all. I hope they will not feel betrayed when I hand them over to Georgiana this time. Perhaps I can talk them into submitting to an hour each at the pianoforte in exchange for being left to their own devices the rest of the day.

"Mrs. Annesley is searching below stairs and I have already looked everywhere on this level. I thought you might take the first floor while I search the second," said Georgiana.

He Who Must Not Be Named was on the first floor and I nearly insisted on searching the second instead, but I did not wish anyone to think I was avoiding him out of any cowardice on my part, so I agreed and we went off to search our respective floors.

I had just finished thoroughly investigating You Know Who's study (which was no longer eerie as his personal things had been returned to the now finished room—but of course I was no longer interested in divining anything about my husband from his private rooms, not at all) when I heard giggling in the corridor.

I exited the study just in time to see the library doors slam shut.

"Etta, Bel!" I called.

A chorus of muffled giggles ensued. Of course, they would have to be in the library.

"You really must have your music lessons now, but perhaps after you are done we might go to the kitchen and see if Cook has any more cake," I said as I cracked the library door.

It occurs to me that I might make for an overly indulgent parent resulting in horribly spoiled children. However that does not matter as apparently I will never have children. I am never speaking to my husband again much less doing _that_.

Cautiously I entered the library. No horrible husband in sight. No Henrietta or Belinda either. I took another step inside and sighed. I was going to have to search the room and I would probably find You Know Who at the desk in the far corner being all brooding and sinister. No matter, he could brood away. I would not talk to him.

Before I could take another step the door slammed behind me. Then, to my great horror, the key clicked in the lock.

No, no, no, no, no noooooooooo.

I grasped the door handles and pulled. No joy.

"Let me out, please," I said, trying to keep the panic from my voice.

My polite request was answered with giggles.

"This is not at all amusing."

More giggles.

"You can absolutely forget about cake. In fact, I have reevaluated my beliefs about children and sweets. I no longer think your delicate little stomachs can handle rich foods. It is going to be plain, boring food from here on out. And tripe, sooooo much tripe."

"I like tripe," chimed Belinda from the other side of the doors.

"That is utter tripe. No one likes tripe."

Again with the giggling.

"All right, you have had your laugh, now let me out."

"I am sorry, but I cannot let you out yet," replied a most unexpected voice. Georgiana.

Before I could process this new revelation a tall, handsome figure strode up to the door and knocked lightly. "What is this rumpus?" my husband asked but there was no severity in his tone. He was shamelessly soft when it came to his young cousins. He will make for an even more indulgent parent than I will.

Not that we will ever be parents.

Because I am never forgiving him.

Obviously.

"We are holding you both captive until you kiss and make friends," said Belinda.

I eyed Dar—the person standing next to me—suspiciously. He had told me he would be in the library if I needed him, perhaps he had become tired of waiting for me to break down and took matters into his own hands.

"Did you engineer this little trap?" I asked him.

"I did not," he said, clearly not appreciating my accusation.

Henrietta could not let her brilliance go unacknowledged. She said, "He wishes he was that clever. I came up with it all on my own."

"I helped!"

"Yes, Bel helped and Georgie got the key."

"I will not open this door until you both stop acting like stubborn children and have a sensible conversation. You have been shooting each other glares and muttering gibes under your breathes for three days now and it is quite beyond what I will tolerate.

"We will leave you to your privacy to work things out. I will come back to check on your progress in one hour," said Georgiana sounding very much like a governess indeed. Unfortunately she was trying to school the wrong pupils.

No! Where was the shy, sweet sister-in-law who I thought was beginning to like me? The Georgiana I knew was far too mild to make such a hardhearted declaration. And Belinda and Henrietta! They were little imps but they were supposed to be _my_ little imps.

I had been betrayed.

"Do not bother trying to ring for Saunders; we disabled the bell," said Henrietta, delivering the final blow.

"Come back," I begged as I heard their retreating footsteps.


	18. Seriously Slightly Sorry

**Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.**

 **So, so sorry it took so long. I could offer several excuses, but none of them are particularly good so I will just say, "There were things I needed to attend to," and leave it at that.**

 **Special thanks to ELN5 for the suggested waltz video.**

 **General thanks to everyone for putting up with my delay.**

 **Did I mention I was sorry?**

* * *

 **2** **3** **rd** **December 1811**

I turned away from the door to find Darcy making Bored/Irritated/Tired/Condescending/Haughty Face at me.

"We do need to talk," he said, his tone everything reasonable and mature. Yet this show of equanimity is a lie.

He wants a row.

Other people might not see it, they might look at him and think him the picture of relaxed composure, but I can see from that blazing look in his eyes (a look similar, yet so different from the blaze of desire) he wants another argument as if a rematch might have some other outcome, like he might find himself cast in a better light if he can draw me into battle, force me to unleash all this venom I am holding, making myself as villainous as he made himself last time.

This could easily happen if I do not keep my temper. Which is exactly why I am so determined to do so.

I know now I was wrong about some things: Jane's indifference, my own foolish schemes to get Mr. Bingley and Jane together. I was wrong.

But Darcy was wronger.

He said hurtful things without care for the pain they would cause, if my distress bothers him now—well, splendid. I am glad to know he can be concerned for the feelings of others. But his discomfort at my wounded feelings is not enough to absolve him. Not yet.

For now he can just sit there in his wrongness and be wrong.

Or stand there, as it were, since that is what he is doing, standing there all haughty and looking at me. I tamp down another flare of rage. This is why I have been avoiding him. This is why I didn't even want to hear his name. Just seeing him makes me want to do violence to him.

Because everyone thinks he is so bloody great. So much the gentleman. And he is.

But he also isn't.

I was so wrong about him. But I was also right. It is all too confusing. I cannot think properly. I cannot _feel_ properly.

I just so _cannot_ right now.

Ignoring his invitation to converse (argue), I walked past him. He sighed dramatically in response. The man practically begs to be coshed over the head. His is a murder that will be easily solved. Mrs. Darcy—in the library—with the candlestick.

I am jesting. Mostly. I did not used to be such a violent person. Of course I did not used to be Mrs. Darcy.

"What are you doing?" he asked as if I had not made my intentions obvious by picking through the shelves for something to read.

"I am going to read until Georgiana returns."

"We do need to talk," he said again, just in case I had not heard him the first time. I suppose, a failure to hear properly is probably the only reason he can think of that a person would not mark his opinions. Intentionally not being listened to must be an extremely rare circumstance for Darcy.

"You may say whatever you like," I said, choosing a book at random. "I cannot stop you." I mean I _could . . ._ with a candlestick of sufficient weight.

I settled into my favorite chair. It was already warm which meant he had not been brooding at the desk as I had thought but in this chair. _My_ chair. The rational part of my mind knew he had lived in this house long before I had and thus it was truly me who had taken his chair. But I was far beyond being rational.

I did not want to share things with him. Not things so much in terms of material goods, but likes, dislikes. I want nothing in common with this man who thinks so little of my family. So little of me.

I cannot get comfortable in this chair without the ottoman. Where is the bloody ottoman? Of course, there it is, on the other side of the room with my husband blocking my path to it. My bloody husband who is just standing there staring at me.

Well, there is nothing for it. The solution to my problem is completely indecorous, but then Darcy already thinks my behavior indecorous, doesn't he?

I felt rather than saw Darcy's brow rise when I threw my legs over the arm of the chair. Indecent display of ankles aside, this is much more comfortable than propping my feet on the ottoman anyway. It is my chair in my library in my house (fine all of those things actually belong to Darcy but he is _my_ horrible husband so that makes them mine) and there are no guests about so I can sit however I like propriety be damned.

He can raise those eyebrows as high as he likes, I hope they get stuck in his hairline.

"Good book?" he asked after what felt like several hours of silence had elapsed.

"Yes." I had not read one word. I had been too busy ignoring him to read.

"I did not know you had a particular interest in methods of irrigation."

Ah, so that was what the book was about.

"There are a lot of things you do not know about me," I replied primly.

"That is true."

Another eternity of silence.

"I must admire your diligence, even those of us who find agricultural treatises stimulating must admit that book is awfully dry. Especially for a book about irrigation."

Oh my God. A pun. That was just pathetic. Even if I wasn't angry with him I wouldn't even give that a pity laugh. And yet I felt a tug at the corner of my lips. Just a little tug.

To keep myself from smiling, I turned my ire on him. Yes, there he is grinning at me. Boyishly. Probably thinks he's quite clever. So irritating.

"Why are you smiling, Mr. Darcy? How dare you smile at me. Go back to Bored-Irritated-Tired-Condescending-Haughty Face immediately."

The grin instantly dropped from his face, replaced with an expression of beLizzyment.

"Bored-irritated what face?" he asked.

"That unpleasant face you make."

"I did not know I had an unpleasant face. I rather thought my face was one of the few things about me you approved of."

I would not give in to his teasing tone and his smile. "You have a face—your social face, the face you make in company. Or at least the face you make when you are in company you consider undeserving of your notice."

"And you think I look at you this way, with bored-irritated-condescending-whatever face, as though I consider you beneath my notice?"

"It is not how I _think_ you look at me, it _is_ how you look at me, Mr. Darcy."

My statement was not quite true. He had given me all manner of looks—that moment when he declared me glorious it had almost looked as though he cared for me, and since the wedding he has regarded me with expressions of at least toleration (because I am so very tolerable) if not true liking—but I was thinking about the haughty gaze he had cast upon me when we first met. He had not even cast it upon me. Not directly. I was just part of the general mass of uncouth people he did not wish to associate with.

"I see," said Darcy, his smile and all levity gone. Good.

I went back to not reading about irrigation.

"We do need to—"

"Talk, yes, you have asserted that several times now, yet you have not managed to say anything substantial," I snapped. Darcy flinched. I, too, was surprised by my own severity. Usually even angry Lizzy is humorous Lizzy, kind Lizzy, nice Lizzy. Wrathful, grudge-holding Lizzy is new. I never thought I could hold a grudge. It always seemed so silly.

Yet here I am, clasping the grudge to my bosom like a flower gifted to me by a suitor (Darcy has noticeably neglected to bring me flowers—if ever there was a time to get a lady flowers it would seem it would be after insulting her family). Really, I should be proud of myself for my grudge holding abilities. Despite all my internal blustering about never forgiving him, I thought I would relent the moment he started apologizing.

Which he has yet to do.

"Elizabeth," said Darcy, speaking my name like a directive. That did not sound like the penitent tone of a person about to apologize.

I forced myself to focus on my book. Embarrassingly I realized I was holding it upside down.

Darcy crossed the room and picked up the ottoman I had wanted for my feet, placing it in front of me he sat down upon it. Still I refuse to look at him.

"Elizabeth," Darcy repeated, this time pleadingly. I spared him a glance. He did look properly contrite sitting there lower than I, staring up at me beseechingly. It is a good start, I'll grant you. But I expect more.

I returned my attention to my upside down book. For the sake of appearances I turned the page.

"I knew I had hurt you but I did not realize. . . . I think there might be certain misconceptions on your part."

 _M_ _isconceptions indeed!_ In my wrathful shock I dropped the book. Darcy caught it. The flash of a grin that this small accomplishment brought to his features was quickly annihilated by the Stare of Madness I centered upon him.

With great care, he placed the book on the floor, never taking his eyes off of me as if I were a wild animal who might strike at any moment.

"You say there are misconceptions on _my_ part?" I asked, my tone hinting that there was only one acceptable answer which was of course: "No, I am very sorry, I did not mean that. I am an idiot."

"Yes, your part," Darcy replied because he is, in fact, an idiot, "You seem to hold the strange belief I despise you, despite the many indications I have given you to the contrary."

Well . . . fine. He has done things, said things that indicate he may not completely despise me. But feeling something slightly more positive than outright loathing for each other is hardly an achievement in a marriage. And it doesn't mean I have to forgive him for anything.

"I never meant to hurt you," Darcy continued, "I should not have worded my rebuke of your behavior so harshly. I should not have said what I said about your family. I should not have made any mention of your family at all—"

"Why ever not? If you thought your words to be true, why not speak them?" I demanded.

"One does not need to say everything that comes to one's head."

"No, but you have made your disdain for my family so obvious it was almost a relief to here you speak of it. I had nearly fooled myself into believing you are not a snobbish arse," I said. If Darcy was shocked by my coarse language he did not show it.

"I do not disdain your family," he said very carefully, the way a person speaks when they want to convince the listener they are not lying. Which of course was the surest sign he was lying.

"I have the utmost respect for your family—"

However. I just know there is going to be a however.

"However—"

Told you.

"—I cannot pretend the conduct of your mother does not distress me—"

Of course you could.

"—or that your father's negligent attitude concerning the finances of his estate and the behavior of his wife and younger daughters does not irritate me."

How dare he say such things about Papa . . . even if they are true.

"My perturbation is on your behalf. That your parents should act thusly without consideration for your reputation and prospects pains me—"

"It pains you for my sake, does it?" I interjected, unable to listen to any more of this nonsense. For a man who claimed to value candor he was awfully good at deluding himself about his own motivations.

"It does, and you cannot deny it pains you as well. I saw the look in your eyes when your mother spoke foolishly. I witnessed you trying to rein in your sisters as your father ought to have done."

"Yes, I sometimes find my mother and younger sisters ridiculous, and sometimes I wished Papa would be more attentive and intervene. But they are my family to find ridiculous—"

"They are my family now as well."

"Yes, and that is truly what bothers you, isn't it? That you are forevermore associated with the Bennets."

"I respect your family," Darcy reiterated.

I laughed hollowly. "Yes, yes you respect my family but you cannot rejoice in the inferiority of my connections. Have you ever considered that I perhaps do not rejoice in my new Darcy connections?"

"Indeed?" Darcy asked incredulously, unable to disguise a sneer.

"Though I certainly like all of your family—most of your family," I amended thinking of Lady Catherine, "You cannot deny they come with their own absurdities, their own unfortunate circumstances."

He is going to say 'indeed' again in his usual haughty tone.

"Indeed." There was no question in the word this time, nor was it a statement of agreement. He might as well have said, "Your ideas are most foolish but I will humor you by pretending to listen."

"Yes, indeed. You have one aunt who condescendingly graces everyone with her inane opinions whether they wish to hear them or not, another who will not leave the house for the shame of being made destitute by her husband—speaking of said husband however much you would like to pretend you have thrown off any connection to Mr. Vane he is your uncle and, if your great aunt is to be believed, he may rise from the dead at any moment.

"And while we are on the subject of your great aunt it should be noted that she is thought of as a bit of a public nuisance, her wit is apparently is not to everyone's taste, but her notoriety is nothing compared to that of her dog who is best known for doing something indelicate to Lord Barrymore's leg. Then there is your uncle James, though I have heard nothing to impeach his character, he did threaten to kill Mr. Vane in my presence and I do not think he was jesting. And I have yet to address the milder eccentricities your bloodline seems rife with—Dora—need I say more?"

"I think it would better serve you to say less." Darcy looked thunderous, though he kept his rancor in check. Pity that. I wanted a row now.

"Have I offended you? It isn't pleasant, is it? Hearing your family spoken of in such a manner."

"It is not," Darcy replied. His tone was contemplative and perhaps a little abashed. I did not want that, not at all. He was on the cusp of apology and here I was all riled again.

"All that separates your family from mine is money and illustrious ancestors. Do not pretend the Darcys are perfect—"

He interrupted, "I never claimed—"

"—because they are not. Despite all their ridiculousness, not a single one of my silly sisters has ever made plans to elope with an unsuitable man—"

"Tread carefully," Darcy warned. Any hint of contrition was now quite gone from his visage. His temper was hanging on by a thread.

"I will tread as I like. Have I mentioned it since you told me? Have I ever given Georgiana the slightest indication that I knew, that I judged her for her mistake?"

Darcy kept his silence and his temper.

"Well have I?"

"You have not," he acknowledged at long last.

"Of course I haven't. What good could have come from holding it against her? By treating her as if her mistakes, her imperfections were so absolute that there was no need to get to know her because nothing could compensate for them?

"I was determined from the first to treat her as I would my own sisters, to treat all your family as if they were my own. In the beginning I did it for your sake, for the sake of our marriage, but as I have said, I have grown to like your family, they are all rather absurd, but of course I have had a great deal of practice loving absurd people." My voice broke and I gasped for air in an attempt to hold back tears. I would not weep in front of him. Not again.

"Elizabeth, I am—"

"No, you don't even know what you are apologizing for. My point is—oh God what is my point?—the point is I am so angry with you and it isn't even about Jane and Mr. Bingley or what you said about my family—well, it is about that but I have been angry with you since before that, since before I even really met you.

"I hate the way you treat people, and I hate the way you judge people and then dismiss them forever. My family is ridiculous, yes. Mortifying, sometimes, yes. But there are so many wonderful things about them you will never know because you have already decided they are not worth knowing.

"When I think about the wedding breakfast—how you sat there silently, grimacing at every word from my mother's lips, making it perfectly clear that you hated us all, confirming everyone's belief that I trapped you—I want to slap you. And I know you will say that it is your nature, that you meant no offense. But you can be pleasant, I have watched you. You can at the very least sit there with a smile on your face and look pretty, but you couldn't do it then, not for me."

"Elizabeth—"

Suddenly the thought of hearing the apology I had so wanted these last three days was repulsive to me. Here I had this lovely grudge and I wanted to shine it and put it on a shelf and admire it forever.

"I do not want to hear it."

"Elizabeth—"

I tried to make my escape but Darcy grabbed both of my hands.

"Release me."

He held gently but fast. I looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

So he has said it. Now I must decide whether to accept it or not.

Sensing an apology was not quite enough, Darcy added,"I am an idiot."

"Finally you say something sensible." I did not smile, but there was a hint of absolution in my tone. Just a hint, mind you.

"You were correct, I am arrogant and conceited. I resented you for daring to accuse me of such faults yet the only inadequacy of your accusation was you neglected to mention the worst of my deficiencies. Arrogance and conceit, yes, but also selfishness blights my character. That day I thought only of my own discomfort never considering how my cold manner would wound you.

"I should not have behaved thusly. I should not have dismissed your family so callously, so definitively. An inflexibility of opinion is a form of ignorance, I know this to be true and yet I often fail to reexamine my own beliefs, to challenge my own prejudices. It is not required of me because no one dares to question me. Except you.

"I can promise never to harm you with intention, mine is not a malicious disposition whatever you may think, but I cannot promise that I will never injure you with unintended cruelties, products of a faulted character. I will endeavor to improve upon my deficiencies, and I hope you will encourage me in my further betterment by pointing out when I am being a snobbish arse so I can tell you I am sorry as I am telling you now, and beg your forgiveness."

I must say this for Darcy when he sets out to do a thing he does it thoroughly. I had hoped he would apologize but I never believed he would fully understand the cause of my resentment (I had not fully understood it myself until I spoke of it). I know people sometimes apologize disingenuously for the sake of peace, but Darcy had meant his words, I know he had.

Now I was at a loss for words. It was not that I could think of nothing to say; I was biting back a jest, several actually. But now was not the appropriate time for my humor. Darcy had made himself so vulnerable with such eloquence my flippancy would be a poor reward. However I was not quite ready to declare him forgiven. Old resentments had been answered, but there was a lingering distrust I could not quite vocalize.

Yet I was grateful for his apology and I wished I could find the proper words to explain my feelings, however I was discovering that though expressing opinions came very easily to me, expressing my emotions—especially in the face of Darcy's raw honesty—was a daunting task.

So instead of untangling my inner turmoil, I reached out to him. His brow scrunched beneath my fingers as I swept them across it, but then relaxed. Apparently any confusion he felt at the gesture resolved itself and he was determined to accept my attentions in whatever form they came even if it meant having his brow caressed as if he were an overwrought child or possibly a good dog.

I hardly knew what I was about or why I should feel the irresistible impulse to touch him, but I had so I did and here we are.

I searched for something to say because one cannot just sit in silence petting someone's forehead, it just isn't done.

"You have the most expressive brow, did you know? You could not lie to anyone. I thought your face so inscrutable at first, but now. . . ."

Having spoken it now seemed like the forehead caressing had to stop. _You've said your piece, Lizzy, if you keep doing it you will have to say something else and things will only become awkward from there_. Briefly I considered if I might transition from forehead petting to hair stroking but I determined, curiosity about the texture of his hair aside, he wasn't a dog and this wasn't the time.

I dropped my hand to my side.

Does he seem disappointed? Yes, I see it, there it is, disappointment lurking in his eyes. I suppose stopping as I had so suddenly might seem a little abrupt. Cold almost. One should not be cold when one is trying to demonstrate one's affection-but-not-quite-forgiveness.

In an effort to combat any perceived coldness I touched my lips to his brow, which was, incidentally, quite warm. Perhaps he was taking ill. Merely for the sake of his health, I repeated the gesture and this time found he was precisely the temperature he ought to be.

Good.

Wonderful.

Perfect.

But perhaps—just perhaps—I maybe should probably kiss him? On the lips. You know, as an olive branch. Belinda did say she was not going to let us out until we kissed and made friends.

His lips were as warm and soft as I remembered and it would have been so simple to allow myself to melt into him—especially if he had done the thing with his tongue, which I had found so shocking the first time but now quite appreciated—had he not pulled away after the briefest of kisses and asked, "Is this forgiveness?"

"No," I replied merrily, "I am still horribly angry with you."

I dipped a finger under the top of his waistcoat and pulled him to me once more. Darcy kissed me back this time, but his lips moved hesitantly over mine. This would not do at all. If he wasn't going to do the thing with his tongue, I would have to try it. With an experimental flick I tasted his lips. They were pleasantly salty and I was proud of myself for my bravery, but I think I ought to have pressed the point when his lips parted to draw a surprised breath.

It is all in the timing. I am certain an ill-timed tongue intrusion could lead to accidental biting, unimaginable pain, and the inability to speak properly for weeks.

I needed to practice. But first I needed to relocate because if I did not one of us was going to end up on the floor and it would not be at all humorous if it were me.

Darcy displayed some astonishment as I settled onto his lap but accepted the change in arrangement with all eagerness. Still there was a pronounced absence of tongue.

It was as if he was trying to restrain himself. And indeed he must have been for the next moment he broke away and asked, "Are you?"

"Are you still angry with me?" he clarified seeing my confusion.

"Yes, absolutely seething. Can you not tell?" I replied distractedly as I debated hiking up my skirts and straddling him, abandoning all pretense of propriety in the process. Or perhaps it would be more expedient to simply request that we take to the floor now before we find ourselves there by adventitious means.

"I must admit I cannot."

"Well I am," I said as I tried to kiss him again.

He dodged me. "Why?"

I sighed to indicate my displeasure. He wanted to discuss this now? Reluctantly I returned to my chair.

One cannot be expected to properly lecture someone from their lap.

"I am still angry with you because you believed the worst of me. How could you ever think I would pressure Jane to pursue Mr. Bingley for mercenary reasons?" Ire flooded me at just the thought of his accusations.

"I should not have accused you of such fiendish motives, yet you were so dogged in your scheming despite her obvious discomfort I did not know what to make of it.

"Her discomfort was not so obvious."

Darcy arched a brow.

"Fine, it was fairly obvious. But you do not know Jane. You do not understand how modest she is. I knew it was not an absence of sentiment for Mr. Bingley that fueled her reluctance rather it was a foolish belief that he did not return her affection. And I was correct. Not only had Jane's own modesty thwarted their courtship, but the deceit of Miss Bingley played a significant, arguably the principle, role."

I briefly laid out Miss Bingley's perfidious letter to Jane. Now that Darcy was being so apologetic it was not as great a triumph to condescendingly declare, "I told you so," however I did it anyway because it needed doing.

"I must apologize again," Darcy said when I had completed my tale and subsequent gloating. "I made assumptions I should not have. I know you well enough that I should not have assumed nefarious intent on your part despite your strange behavior."

"I did not behave that strangely."

I did not even need him to arch a brow at me this time.

"Fine," I conceded, "I can imagine how it looked. I made myself appear foolish. You must have been so embarrassed of me at Mrs. Hamilton's ball."

"More embarrassed for you than of you, I assure."

I laughed.

"You have the most beautiful laugh in the world, Mrs. Darcy."

"Flatterer!"

"I speak only the truth."

He leaned forward, looking at me with blazing eyes (desire this time). I pulled away before our lips could touch. I had something I needed to say before we ended up on the floor.

"I suppose I should apologize as well," I said. I looked at the carpet as I spoke. It was a difficult task apologizing, but I felt better for having done it.

I met Darcy's eyes to find him still staring at me expectantly.

"You know my dear declaring that you _should_ apologize does not count as an apology."

Can you believe this man?

Do not answer that.

"You will note I did say 'I suppose'. I was not certain if I wanted to apologize and now I am quite certain I do not."

Darcy grinned.

"Stop smiling," I groused.

He continued grinning. Really, what woman could endure such tempting torture? All I can think about when he smiles so charmingly is kissing him. It is most disarming!

"All right, here it is: I am slightly sorry."

"Just slightly?" Darcy asked teasingly.

"Only slightly and getting less sorry by the moment. I was not half so wrong as you. But I will admit I misjudged you from the first. Had I not assumed the worst of you, had I revealed my concerns about Jane to you instead of assuming you plotted against me, our disagreement might have been avoided entirely."

"So I am to understand that you are a bit sorry for thinking I was a horrible brute whose every action was undertaken for the singular purpose of ruining you and your sister's happiness?"

"I never thought you were quite that terrible. But I am sorry. Slightly."

"And I am sorrier."

"Good, you should be."

Darcy chuckled at my jest.

"Really I am still quite mortified when I think of how I behaved recently. Especially at the Hamilton ball. I do hope there were not many witnesses. I fear marriage has turned me into my mama."

"Never say that," he quipped. Fearing he had offended me he immediately began to apologize, "I am sorry I did not mean to imply—"

"You did and it is quite all right. I know how she is. And if you were not her awe-inspiring son-in-law

Mama would find it equally difficult to find a kind word for you. She quite despised you when you first arrived in Hertfordshire.

"She mortifies me most of the time, but I was proud of her for despising you. One passing insult of my beauty was all it took for her to dismiss you entirely as a potential suitor for any of her daughters. And she doesn't even like me all that much. Some mothers with five unmarried daughters would ignore such a slight and simply throw a different daughter your way but not Mama. Wealth and prestige could not blind her to poor manners."

"When did I ever say you were not beautiful?"

"At the assembly the evening we were introduced I overheard you telling Bingley 'She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.'"

"My God, did I really say it like that?"

"Yes, exactly like. I have an excellent memory and I entertained half of Hertfordshire by doing impressions of you saying it in your haughty voice. Everyone agreed it was the most pompous thing they had ever heard."

"Elizabeth, I am sorry."

"You seem to be saying that a lot lately," I teased.

"You must know by now you are certainly handsome enough to tempt me. I think you the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance who has the finest eyes in all of England."

"My eyes are only the finest in England but my laugh is the most beautiful in the world. Who is this foreign woman whose eyes are more beautiful than mine? And how is it that you have become so well traveled that you can speak of all the world so confidently? Are you a spy like your uncle?" I asked archly. I was infinitely please by this compliments but I could not help but tease him.

He attempted to kiss me in reply. I dodged him again.

"You are trying to distract me. You are a spy, aren't you! Is that what you were doing when you had things to attend to?"

"I was walking Sir Sebastian, as you well know."

"I did not know. You walked him an awful lot."

"He is an energetic dog."

"And on these walks I suppose you met with other operatives in the park to exchange secrets."

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am nothing so dashing as a spy."

"That is probably for the best. It would be difficult to resist you if you were dashing."

"You can resist me now?"

"Oh, yes."

"Mrs. Darcy, I think you lie."

This time when he tried to kiss me I let him.

At long last he did the thing with his tongue


	19. The Garden of Delight

**I will not apologize for the delay this time** **because** **I am certain you are all used to it by this point. I should perhaps apologize for** **the chapter itself. It still needs some work, yet I am posting it away because if I do not it may drive me mad and it is at least** **humorous (** **possibly** **even when it does not intend to be** **) and we could all use a laugh** **right now I think.**

 **I am praying you all are staying healthy and safe and that the worst of your problems is toilet paper rationing.**

 **A** **s always thank you for reading.**

* * *

 **2** **3** **rd** **December 1811**

 **Dinner**

"Are you even listening to me, Elizabeth?" asked Mrs. Vane.

I was not. Mrs. Vane had been going on and on about the same topic since mid-afternoon so I think it excusable that I had stopped listening to her. Around three o'clock.

My attention was fully occupied by the man seated across from me who was distractedly handsome and nearly perfect if one ignored the arrogance and conceit (but he was working on those) and the fact that he did not like sunshine.

"You actually don't like sunshine? I mean, really, sunshine? Who doesn't like sunshine?" I asked rather suddenly. I had certainly just interrupted Mrs. Vane (she had paused her lecture to draw breath) but if I did not on occasion interrupt one of Darcy's aunts in the middle of a monologue I would never speak to him.

Darcy, who was by now accustomed to my outbursts and tendency towards non sequitur, was the only one at the table not to appear confounded. "I do not dislike sunshine, I simply do not relish it," he replied.

His lack of beLizzyment could also possibly be attributed to the fact my questioning was a continuation of the conversation we had been having several hours earlier. After Belinda came bursting into the library (sending Darcy and I toppling off the ottoman onto the floor . . . fortunately no ripped bodices this time) to announce the end to our internment, we decided we should probably have a proper conversation. We remained there for the rest of the morning discussing books, and music and our childhoods and all manner of trivialities until we were interrupted by the arrival of Lady Catherine.

During this pleasant interlude I had discovered the answers to several of my previous questions about Darcy (Eton, Boodles just in case you wanted to know) but she had interrupted just as we got to my question about sunshine.

"How is that possible?"

"I do not feel it has any advantage over gloomy skies. As long as there is an absence of rain one can engage in all the same activities without the discomfort of the glare of the sun in one's eyes," replied Darcy.

I was right all along he is mad. Utterly mad.

"What about kittens?"

"What?" Ah, there is the beLizzyment.

"Elizabeth, can you please stop being absurd?" this question was posed by Mrs. Vane who had overcome her confusion and was attempting to take charge once more.

"Kittens—your opinions—now—tell me," I said, not taking my eyes off Darcy.

"When I was a child I did a bit of study into the mammalian species. I never discovered much to interest me about felines and other Eutheria, but I must admit Metatheria are fascinating if one is interested in that sort of thing," Dora said with a haughty sniff as if to indicate the love of mammalians should be left firmly in childhood.

"And Darcy what is your opinion on the matter?" I asked.

"I do not see how this is relevant," interjected Mrs. Vane.

"I like kittens," was Darcy's much awaited answer.

"To cuddle or to eat?"

"Elizabeth, really," chided Mrs. Vane.

"It is a necessary distinction to make. The man doesn't like sunshine, that is odd and a touch sinister frankly. Who knows what other strange proclivities he might be concealing."

"I have no objection to sunshine and I like kittens. To cuddle," said Darcy with a grin.

"We must discuss Lady Whisperton," cried Mrs. Vane.

Yes, Lady Whisperton again.

Lady Catherine interrupted our afternoon to bring us the latest copy of _Lady Whisperton's Society Pages._ She thought Darcy and I would want to know that we once again were featured in the gossip rag (we did not). She also wanted to give me an opportunity to apologize for all I put her through by . . . I don't know . . . existing, I suppose (I did not). During her seemingly endless tirade she threatened several times to return for dinner (blessedly, she did not).

"I do not wish to discuss it anymore. It really doesn't matter," I said breezily.

Mrs. Vane would not be put off, she said, "Of course it matters. Someone in this house is a spy."

"We do not know that it must be anyone in this house," I said with more conviction than I felt.

The Lady Whisperton column contained the sort of dross one might expect: a replay of Darcy and I's very public disagreement at Mrs. Hamilton's ball. What was unexpected was Lady Whisperton's familiarity with the particulars of the dispute, that it was about Jane and Mr. Bingley not Sir Sebastian Seymour as everyone could have easily assumed, and not only had the tiff occurred in the ballroom but it had continued at home resulting in an estrangement of some duration. These were things only someone in the household should know.

"Of course it is someone in the house! Oh for heaven's sake, could someone please pass me the potatoes. This is chaos" added Mrs. Vane as she surveyed the table with a flustered expression.

I had finally altered the way dinner was served. I had requested the meal to be all laid out at once, no more of this carrying in each course nonsense. It was much less trouble for the servants and created a cozier, private family atmosphere for the five of us. Jane was dining with the Bingleys this evening. I suspect Darcy's visit to Mr. Bingley this afternoon had prompted the invitation.

"I thought you would appreciate not having servants lurking during our private conversation," I said, hoping to stifle any further critical remarks from Mrs. Vane.

"That is true," she conceded with ill grace. "But it is so unrefined, and without proper courses one does not know when to transition between topics of conversation."

I must have appeared as confused as I felt by her statement because Darcy explained, "Traditionally we adhere to a conversational schedule of sorts at dinner."

Well, that was not at all enlightening.

"First, we would discuss art. Then music—" Georgiana began but she was quickly interrupted by her aunt.

"After that we would talk about significant events—not gossip of course, and not politics—conversation must be kept polite."

"Even when you are just among family?"

"Of course," replied Mrs. Vane seeming shocked I had even asked such a question, "Who deserves your courtesy more than family?"

I studied her face for a hint of irony but detected none. I must either deduce she does not consider me family or her definition of courtesy is very different than mine.

"And you were only allowed to discuss the assigned topic without deviation?" I asked. I was still shocked at the idea of such careful management though I should not have been. The stories Darcy had told me this morning revealed he'd had a rather structured childhood. A happy childhood to be sure, but it bore no resemblance to the untutored wildness of my upbringing.

"Allowed? You make it sound grim when you word it thusly. I think conversation is so much pleasanter when all the participants know how to proceed. It keeps everything so organized. The way a Darcy household ought to be," said Mrs. Vane.

"I must agree. Very sensible, indeed. There are things that can be said over the fish that would be positively unseemly over the cheese course," I said, endeavoring to hold back laughter. One must be courteous to family after all.

Sensing my struggle, Darcy said, "Do try not to laugh, my dear. Laughing is strictly for dessert."

"I have a terrible feeling you are not jesting," I said.

"I would not dare."

"Because jokes are for pudding?"

Georgiana interjected, "And riddles. Papa always came up with the best riddles."

"So your father carried on this tradition in your house as well?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, he was as enamored with order and propriety as any Darcy before him," Darcy replied, "And after him. I am not certain if such correctitude is a failing or a virtue."

"A virtue in most cases I should think. And when it is a failing it is the sort of virtuous failing people are apt to excuse."

"Excuse, perhaps, but not like," said Darcy.

"Does propriety need approval? I thought the practice of it was a reward in itself. Those who exercise it are not spoiled on levity, it must give one a greater appreciation for dessert," I teased.

"Indeed," Darcy said in a manner which made me think he was implying something beyond mere agreement of my assertion. Also he was looking at me in a way that was decidedly indecent.

Mrs. Vane must have agreed for she cleared her throat noisily and said, "I see you two have decided to like each other. I suppose that is sensible, though it would be preferable if you were less obvious about it."

"I do not mind their obviousness. I am glad to see my brother so happy," chimed Georgiana.

"As am I. But the way you are looking at her is improper, Fitzwilliam, do stop it. And will someone pass me the potatoes sometime before I wither away of starvation?"

* * *

 **Evening**

I am going to visit him.

I have come to the conclusion that after enough preface I might find bayoneting a perfectly acceptable culmination to an otherwise delightful interlude.

So I am going to visit him. Darcy, that is. In his bed chamber. Tonight.

Just as soon as I find my courage.

Not that I am frightened. Not exactly. It is just a rather decisive step. Once we take that step we can never again claim to be indifferent acquaintances. Then again perhaps the marriage thing already put paid to that.

His chambers have gone silent. If I am going to go through with this I must do it now before he falls asleep.

I approached the door and considered my options. Should I knock? Yes, of course I should knock. He could be doing anything. He could be undressed! I tapped tentatively at the adjoining door. It was the meekest knock in the history of knocks but if I had hoped Darcy would not hear me I was sadly disappointed for not a moment after I had ceased tapping I heard, "Enter."

I entered. Standing in the door way I squinted into the shadows, my candle provided just enough light to discern the outline of the four-poster and nothing else.

"Good evening," I said to the darkness.

"Good evening," the darkness, presumably Darcy, spoke back.

I took one step into the room, then halted.

"Have you come to smother me?" he asked his voice rich with amusement.

"No," I replied, taking another step, "I've decided I can forgive the sunshine thing."

"Very tolerant of you."

Another forward step and I was close enough to see him. I felt my face flame as I observed him. I do not know why I should react with such bashfulness. It is nothing I have not seen before. I glanced away with a nonchalant air. I could certainly be in the presence of Darcy's bare-chested glory without ogling.

Certainly.

I drew a fortifying breath. If the exhale sounded very much like a longing sigh it was not my fault. "Good evening," I repeated, because why say something only once when you can make yourself look like a fool by saying it twice?

"I certainly hope it will be."

Devilish rogue. What reply could I possibly make to such a statement?

Before I lost my bravery I extinguished my light. I placed the candlestick carefully on the floor then threw off my dressing gown in one quick motion.

All right. Now for the difficult part.

"Mind where you place your knee," warned Darcy as I attempted to join him on the bed.

"Sorry," I squeaked before I lost balance and collapsed atop him. Immediately I scrambled off of him, rolling away to the far edge of the bed.

"You're naked!"

With his usual dry tone he replied, "You will forgive me for noticing, but so are you."

"Yes, but I do not _sleep_ in the nude. I thought you were wearing trousers!" It was merely the bedclothes that guarded his last vestige of modesty. If he could be said to have modesty.

"Why would I wear trousers to bed? I have night shirts. I do not like them. I find they bunch beneath one in bed. And, as I usually do not have company, I see no point in enduring the discomfort. Would you like me to put one on?"

"No, it would be counterproductive."

"A most sensible conclusion."

"Do not mock me, Mr. Darcy."

"Why ever not? I thought that was what you wanted. On our wedding night you said you wanted me to tease you."

I knew perfectly well I was being a ninny. But no one wants their foolishness pointed out to them even if they are aware of it. I held my silence as punishment for his lack of chivalry.

"There is no need for us to do this now if you are frightened," said Darcy cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

"I am not at all frightened," I replied in my best attempt to avoid the matter entirely.

"Then why are you trembling?"

"I'm cold," I said defiantly.

"If that is the case . . . ." he let his words trail off, dripping promise as they lingered in the darkness. "I must keep you warm." Suddenly he seized me, pulling me flush against his glorious body, all heat and masculine hardness. It was a little overwhelming to say the least.

When I could again form words I said, "You, sir, are a scoundrel."

"I am, but you are not at all frightened."

"I am not." I had spoken in a show of bravado, but I realized my words were the truth.

Darcy too must have recognized the veracity of my reply for his lips found mine with all due haste.

I believe I have mentioned the tongue thing. It is really quite remarkable. This morning before we were interrupted I think I had just enough time to master it myself though I had by no means grown tired of practicing.

Whilst I was distracted by his kisses, Darcy shifted our positions in one quick, efficient maneuver. I found myself pinioned beneath him, my wrists held by his strong hands, my legs parted by his thighs, were spread wide and fixed to the mattress. This arrangement was perhaps a little shocking, but I was not at all displeased with it. His weight was not upon me, I could easily draw breath, yet I was panting all the same.

My eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, the light from the fireplace gave the room that infuriating quality of the gloaming, some features took precedence and everything else became a gloomy blur. I could see Darcy in profile, I could make out that satirical brow, the aristocratic nose, those perfect lips. I could have counted his eyelashes had I wished to, but I could not discern the look in his eyes.

How much of me could he see? Why was he keeping me in suspense?

I wanted him to touch me. I had become intensely aware of my own topography, certain peaks and clefts wanted his attention most acutely.

He shifted slightly and his battle-ready weapon pressed _right there._ I released a little sigh of pleasure which Darcy mistook for a gasp of fear.

"There will be plenty of preliminaries. Do not be frightened, my dear."

"It is called preface. And I am not frightened," I corrected primly.

"Does anything frighten you?"

"No, nothing at all."

"Might I light a candle, then? To see you properly," I could hear that teasing note in his voice again. He knew I was still too much a coward to accept his challenge.

"That is out of the question."

He put his lips tenderly to mine. Once he broke the kiss he was back to taunting me. He whispered, "So fearless."

Then he dipped his head, grazing his mouth across the column of my neck, finally arriving at his goal he flicked his tongue over the tip of my right breast, circling that sensitive peak once—twice—no more.

This time he could not misinterpret the meaning of my sharp intake of breath. "Do it again," I commanded.

"Do what again?" he asked with mock innocence.

"Do it again or I will be very cross with you."

He chuckled.

"Sorry, I cannot seem to find my way back in the dark," he said, whispering his words against my ear in the most tempting manner.

" _Darcy_ ," I begged, I was quite beyond pride.

Now he gave his attentions to my left breast, sucking and gently biting on the tip, driving me to the brink of ecstasy.

But it wasn't enough.

I knew what I needed. I was sorely tempted to give myself over to wantonness and press my yearnful cleft against his hardness, but then he would know my terrible secret.

Releasing my wrists, Darcy shifted to one side.

One of his hands traveled up my thigh and for one hopeful moment I thought he might already know my most intimate desire but no, I was wrong, he had only the vaguest inclination of what my secret might be. His hand continued its journey, fingertips casually passing over where they ought to have stayed.

There was really nothing for it.

Grabbing his hand I led it back to my need, then I did my best to show him what was required of him. Fortunately Darcy caught on quickly.

"Like this?"

My affirmative reply came out as a moan.

"It is even better than when I do it myself. I thought it might be, it is wonderful to know I was right," I babbled breathlessly. As soon as I had spoken I knew I ought to have kept my mouth shut.

"You do this to yourself?" Darcy asked. He did not halt his ministrations (thank goodness) but there was a hint of amusement in his tone I could not like. It probably wasn't a lady-like thing to give oneself such pleasure, but it caused no harm and I quite enjoyed it and now that the secret was out I refused to be embarrassed by it.

"I am twenty years old, Darcy, you did not think I could have lived so long without exploring my Garden of Delight, did you?"

Now he did stop his attentions. "Pardon, your what?"

"Garden of Delight," I repeated reluctantly, knowing it would only cause him further amusement. "You are laughing," I accused.

"I am not, I have not made a sound."

"You are laughing in your head and I can hear it."

"You read minds now?"

"Just yours."

"Well, that is terrifying," he said.

He returned to his task and for several moments my labored breathing was the only sound in the room.

"When you are exploring your Garden of— " Darcy began, then laughed, "I cannot even say it."

"It is not that amusing," I said with undisguised annoyance. If the man wasn't going to bring me to ecstasy the very least he could do was not amuse himself at my expense.

"Mama calls it a fertile valley," I added just so he would know there were more ridiculous things it could be called.

"Garden of Delight is certainly superior," Darcy agreed, but I could hear the sarcasm. "When you are pleasuring yourself do you think of me?" he asked finally.

I answered, perhaps too vehemently, "Of course not!"

Darcy paused. His silence seemed a bit sullen.

"Do you think of me?" I asked because now I _had_ to say something . . . and I did wish to know. "When you—whet your weapon?"

He chuckled at my wording but did not answer immediately.

This silence was excruciating. What if he doesn't pleasure himself? What if I am some sort of lustful monstrosity?

"Yes, I think of you," he said at long last. "When you arrived at Netherfield to see Jane looking like a woman undone with your hair wild and your eyes bright I knew I had underestimated the power of your beauty. I thought of you that night. I had not spent so quickly since I was a green lad. I have thought of you every night since and I fear my desire for you is the sort that will drive me closer and closer to madness until I can finally be inside of you."

Well, then.

"Oh," I said because that was all I could manage.

"Yes, oh," said Darcy with a self-depreciating laugh. Perhaps he thought he had revealed too much however I was most gratified to hear his words. They left my my throat dry, but other more southerly locations decidedly wet. Wetter.

" _Oh,"_ I repeated as he nuzzled my breasts with his mouth. " _Ohhh_ ,"as his hand once again found the center of my need.

"If not of me, what—whom do you think of?" he asked, slipping one clever finger inside my sodden passage.

After a long, distracted pause during which another finger joined in the exquisite torture, I answered, "I think only of how very pleasant it feels."

"How delightfully innocent," Darcy replied. And then he did something completely indecent.

Had it occurred to me to stop him I still would not have for as shocking as the idea of it was, I had a strong suspicion it might feel wonderful.

I was right. I usually am.

Darcy kissed his way down my body. Then he did the thing with his tongue. _There._ He kept at it. He did it with the determined proficiency with which he did everything. I had never admired that quality in him as much as I did in that moment.

After a while his dedication paid off and for about a half a minute I died. It was glorious. Angels sang and everything. Every climax I had ever brought myself to had been polite by comparison. This rapture had left me a panting, shuddering mess.

Whilst I recovered my husband returned to his earlier position, pinning me to the bed. This time he clasped my hands in his own. I felt his breath, warm against my cheek, I was vaguely aware as he positioned himself at my entrance.

"That was—" I began, but I got no further in my praise, instead I shouted, "Bloody hell!"

"Forgive me, I thought it might be less painful if the ingress was completed quickly."

"I hate you. No I don't. No I definitely hate you. No, I don't. It doesn't hurt, but it is a near thing. It just feels like too much," I said as I adjusted to his hasty invasion.

"Should I retreat?"

"No!" I cried. I threw one leg around his hips to stop him. "Oh, that feels quite good actually." I writhed a bit testing the sensation. "Isn't that remarkable? I thought it would be awful."

"Yes, it is all very remarkable," he sounded as though he were under great strain. "May I—could I possibly—proceed?"

He was fortunate my lust outweighed my impish compulsions, instead of torturing him further I said, "Oh yes, do."

I thought it would be dreadful. I thought I would tear in two. But it wasn't and I didn't.

He moved inside of me hesitantly at first, but his vigor increased as I cried out begging for more without really knowing what I was asking for.

Just as I began to feel I could endure no more pleasure, I perished again, dying that lovely impermanent death only overwhelming ecstasy could bring.


	20. Darcy's Secret Collection

**2** **3** **rd** **December 1811**

"Well, that wasn't entirely terrible," I declared mimicking Darcy's usual dry tone. This was the understatement of the century, but it would not do to praise him too highly. One must encourage people to keep aspiring to greater heights.

"You really are too kind," Darcy replied.

He had rolled over to the other side of the bed. I was feeling just a little bereft and wondering why he had felt the need to distance himself so promptly. He was probably being gentlemanly. When he made to move off of me I ought to have said, "Just lay there and sweat on me, it is quite all right. I am laying in a pool of sweat and other less decorous secretions anyway."

But I had not said anything and I did not know what I was suppose to do now. Were we really meant be so intimate then go to our respective side of the bed and sleep? And why did my side have to be so damp? I wanted to be close to him. I also wanted to escape this abominable vat of bodily broth lest I drown in it.

Darcy reached out and took my hand lacing his fingers through mine. That was something at least.

"Come here," he said, giving my hand a weak tug.

I complied, dragging myself until I was beside him. I put my head upon his chest. He made for a most uncomfortable pillow, but I was too fatigued to search for better accommodation.

After a bit of rest a question occurred to me. A question I found I must have the answer to immediately. Darcy was drowsing so I bit his nipple. Tit for tat—perfectly fair. He had done it to me and I had enjoyed it. Though he perhaps had not bitten me quite so hard.

"My God!" he exclaimed as he jolted awake. Then he muttered something about me being possessed by the devil followed by energetic blaspheming. And people say ladies overreact to being startled.

"I have questions."

"I never imagined you would not, though I thought perhaps we might catch our breathes before you began asking them."

I chose to ignore his scolding. "When you—" I began then promptly halted, how did one word this?

"When you . . .tasted my nectar—did you—did it—I hope it was not unpleasant."

Thankfully Darcy understood what I was trying to ask. "You taste like tea. Well, not precisely like tea. But not unpleasant."

Wonderful. Perhaps he might be persuaded do it again. Often. Soon.

Perhaps tomorrow.

At the latest.

But I was not going to mention it because I didn't want to seem greedy.

"So you will do it again?" Fine, I couldn't help but mention it.

"Indeed," he said. Most emphatically.

Lovely.

Another thought occurred to me. "You knew what you were doing!" I said accusingly.

"Thank you? Possibly I am sorry?" said Darcy with much beLizzyment.

"Mama told me gentlemen were either hopeless blunderers intent on their own enjoyment never mind their wives' pleasure, or they were lovers. And if they were the latter it was because they had extensive experience of a practical nature . . . or they had learned it all from books."

He understood the implication immediately. "Books! That is the origin of my expertise if that is indeed what you are accusing me of—or complimenting me for."

"So there really are such books?" I had been certain Mama was fabricating their existence.

"Yes."

"You have read them?"

"Yes."

"You possess such books?"

Darcy paused, sensing the trap. "Yes."

"I want to see one."

"Certainly not."

"Why not? Nothing can shock me now, I just did all the things," I argued.

"I assure you you have not done all the things."

"Are we going to do all the things?"

"Yes—no, perhaps not _all_."

"Why not _all_? Perhaps I want to do all the things."

"You do not," said Darcy with decided authority. Yet I was not swayed. "I might. I cannot know," I insisted.

"You should not know." He could not have uttered any sentence that would have convinced me less.

"Why should you get to decide? You should let me read some of your naughty books and let me decide for myself."

"You could never read such books. Not if you insist on calling it your Garden of Delight."

"What do they call it? What do _you_ call it?"

"It is not something I would repeat in front of a lady."

I decided to ignore the absurdity of that statement and keep pressing my point. "I want to see your naughty book collection."

"I would not call it a collection."

"Do you have more than two books?"

His silence answered for itself.

"Then it is a collection."

I nudged him. Once. Twice. Incessantly. "Let me see it. If you do not I will assume it does not exist and I will have to conclude you got your experience elsewhere."

"You wish for me to show you my collection?" There was a cunningness to his tone. I knew if I could properly see his expression it would be fox-like.

"Yes." I agreed, because I was almost as eager to see whatever clever distraction he had thought of as I was his illicit literature.

Breaking our embrace, Darcy stood. With the ease of someone who knew the room he found his way to a candelabra and lit the tapers one by one. His form appeared out of the darkness. I kept my eyes demurely averted until he turned to light more candles allowing me to ogle. I really did not think it was a sight I would grow tired of anytime soon.

After much shuffling about in the wardrobe he produced an unlikely box. It was a case really. A small case, secured by a latch at both sides.

He placed it heavily upon the bed where I sat covered most carefully to the neck with the coverlet. Darcy sat down, covering himself insouciantly to the most minimal degree. He gestured for me to open the case. Conscious of his smirk, I undid the latches and lifted the lid of the case. The horrors I found therein where unthinkable.

I had heard about such men of course. The kind of creatures who kept this sort of collection. That my husband should be one was, well, unsurprising when one really thought about it—but that did not make the burden any easier to bear.

"You are an amateur geologist," I said with farcical revulsion.

"There is no need to say it like that."

"You have a box of stones."

As if it would make it better Darcy said, "There is a fossil or two in there as well."

"They have labels. Individual labels, Darcy—you've organized them," I said, keeping to my horrified act.

"They would hardly be much use if I had not."

"Jane's first suitor was an amateur geologist as well. He inherited quite a lot of money from a rich uncle and he thought he needed a hobby now that he was a gentleman properly. He was very dull to begin with I daresay, but his chosen hobby only made him duller still. He wrote Jane a poem comparing her to some sort of obscure mineral."

"Noted. I will not attempt any poetry."

Idly I picked up a stone from the case. In the poor light it looked nearly black, but there was hint of purple and a bit of sparkle.

"That is fluorite. Blue john colloquially," said Darcy too avidly.

I quickly put the stone back where I had found it. I have learned from my experiences with Dora that the key to not receiving an impromptu hour long lecture from an enthusiast about their chosen subject is to not let them get them started in the first place.

"Geology can be interesting."

I nodded exaggeratedly in reply.

He was not discouraged by my sarcasm. "Here, look, it is fossilized coral. I found it in a rock outcropping in Derbyshire. From this evidence we can only assume Derbyshire was covered by the sea several millennia ago. Is it not fascinating?"

"It is." I took the fossil from him and squinted at it. I could not imagine Derbyshire under the sea. It was difficult enough to imagine Derbyshire at all.

"To think how old the world is makes one feel one's life is rather insignificant, yet precious all the same," Darcy said as he returned his prize to its proper place.

In that moment realized I was terribly fond of him. That I was attracted to him—that I admired him had been evident to me for some time now, but fondness had seemed too quiet, too sweet an emotion to apply to my feelings toward Darcy.

It did not blaze like passion, it was subtle, it was furtive, it coaxed you out into the fen slowly so you did not realize where you were until you were quite mired. Fondness made you shrug your shoulders at even the oddest eccentricities and say, "He is such a trial, but I am _so_ very fond of him." The poets never spoke of fondness, but they should. A sudden surety had come over me and I knew now that it was the most dangerous of all of Love's cousins.

I kissed his cheek.

"I am being dull, aren't I?" asked Darcy.

"No indeed."

"You just kissed me as if I were your great aunt and I daresay you are listening with the same polite attentiveness you would give to a dotty old lady as well."

"I do not have a great aunt unless you count your great aunt. I would like to hear you call Margaret dotty to her face. And I've never been polite to you before, I hardly think I would start now."

"There is that. But no matter the reason, I would not have you kiss me politely."

He kissed me then in that overwhelming way he usually did. Fortunately, I still had enough wits about me to anticipate him.

Catching hold of the coverlet before he could yank it away I said, "No. You will not distract me. I want to see your collection."

"You've seen it."

"This was not the collection I was talking about."

"Yes, but this collection is much less shameful."

"I do not know about that," I teased, then more seriously, "Show me your naughty books."

"You won't even let me see your naughty bits, why should I?"

"Perhaps we can come to an agreement."

"Oh?"

"If you let me see—nay, if you let me _read_ one of your naughty books, I will let you see me unclothed with the candles alight."

"If you let me see—nay, if you let me visit your Garden of Delight while you are unclothed with the candles alight, I will let you read a book of my choosing from my illicit collection."

I knew he would choose the tamest book in his collection, but I also knew it was the best offer I was likely to get.

"All right we have an agreement."

Darcy stood. My eyes immediately began roaming.

"You are ogling me."

"Your powers of observation are most extraordinary, Darcy. It must be your scientific the turn of mind which gives you such perspicacity."

He teasingly gave the coverlet another tug in response.

"You keep your naughty books under your bed?" I asked as he knelt down and extracted a large box (much more promising) from beneath the four-poster.

"I did. I am going to move them because I know you are relentless and will sneak into them if I do not."

I could not refute this.

Still on the floor (and still deliciously nude) he selected a tome from the box.

"Here is your book."

I took the offering. " _Tom Jones,"_ I said, reading the cover. To add insult to injury it was only the first volume. "Not fair."

"You did not specify." He was most proud of himself.

"You, sir, are dishonorable."

"Indeed," he replied. Then he grabbed the coverlet away leaving me bare."And you, my dear, are beautiful."

I snatched it back, covering myself once more.

" _Tom Jones_ does not count and you know it!"

"It was not originally part of my collection, no. I hid it to keep it away from Henrietta."

"You played me false."

"It is hardly my fault you are a poor bargainer, Lizzy." It was the first time he had called me Lizzy and I might have taken a moment to revel in the lovely sound of it from his lips if I had not been so determined to have my way.

I leaped at the box. I had to reveal my bare bottom in the process, but sometimes delicacy must be sacrificed in the pursuit of education. The exposure proved enough of a distraction, I reached the box before Darcy could stop me. Grabbing the first item my hand fell upon I yanked it from the box. It was a folio and the contents flew out, scattering everywhere.

"You have naughty pictures as well," I said picking up the nearest engraving.

"I collected those years ago—at university," he said. He was as shamefaced as a child caught sneaking sweets from the kitchen.

"I'm sure," I said, examining my catch. "This couple is copulating like livestock, rather how I thought it would be done actually. Can we try it like this?"

Darcy looked as though his cravat was too tight, except of course he was completely naked. He also appeared more aware of his nudity than he had been previously, he took greater pains to cover himself before finally answering, "Yes, of course."

"And this?" I asked holding up another illustration.

"Yes."

"And this?"

"At your service."

"Good Lord, perhaps not like that."

He made as if to snatch the pages away from me but then dropped his hand before he could execute the attempt. Clearly he knew me well enough to know any endeavors to stop me would only further my determination to see every illustration. "You are going to shock yourself so completely you never allow me to visit your garden again," he said.

"Oh, this one depicts two ladies and one gentleman. And here, two gentleman and one lady," I said, tilting my head this way and that as I looked at the engraving, trying to understand what exactly was meant to be happening. It seemed the addition of another participant rather complicated things.

"I would prefer to keep this just between us if it is all the same to you."

"I concur," I replied, my voice sounding hoarse.

"I told you you would be shocked."

"I am not shocked," I said. But perhaps it was time to put the illustrations down.

I grabbed for a book before Darcy could stop me. Nevertheless he tried to pull it from my grasp, I ignored him.

"Oh, this one is in French."

"You already have your book," he chided.

"Do not worry. I cannot read it anyway. If you had known how appallingly poor my French is you would have given me this book. My Italian is non-existent, by the way. And you've seen me at the instrument and on the dance floor. I could never be considered an accomplished woman by the lofty standards you laid out at Netherfield."

"You will remember Miss Bingley said most of that."

"Yes, your only contribution was that a woman should be well read. In the spirit of that—" I made another attempt at grabbing a book this time Darcy stopped me.

"How do you ever expect me to learn if you deny me education? I fear I will make for a very dull lover if I have no understanding of the possibilities."

"No man could find fault with your performance, I certainly cannot, and if another should I will have to kill him and not just for the crime of insulting you."

There is something about an otherwise perfectly reasonable man threatening to murder someone for one's honor that is thrillingly delightful. It is not a sensible delight, but it is a delight all the same.

"Mr. Darcy, are you threatening to duel my fictitious lovers?"

"Yes, Mrs. Darcy, I am."

Darcy made as if to kiss me, I used the opportunity to dive for another book.

" _Fanny Hill_ —hey! That one looked perfectly harmless!" I said as Darcy snatched the book away.

"It isn't."

"It said it was a memoir. And I have seen it before."

"Have you? In your father's library?" he asked doubtfully.

"No, I saw Mama reading it. That is why I remembered the title. She rarely ever reads anything longer than a gossip sheet. Is it truly a naughty book?"

"Quite." Darcy chuckled. I did not see how my mother reading naughty books was amusing. The thought of it made me slightly ill.

"I should be allowed to read it if my mother has read it."

"I cannot give you this book. I keep from you it not only for the sake of your morality, but also because it is illegal and I do not wished to see you in gaol for it."

"That book is illegal?"

"Yes," replied Darcy, "They all are."

"What is the penalty if one is caught in possession of one?"

"Transportation."

"Really?!"

"Or possibly confiscation and a small fine. I'm not certain."

I was undeterred by threat of punishment. "I want another book."

"You have your book."

"It does not count!"

"You have your book and now you must fulfill your half of the bargain," said Darcy as he gathered the other end of the coverlet which guarded me.

I clung tighter to my shield. "I will not forget you perfidy."

"Dearest, I am going to make you forget your name."

That sounded most promising. I released the coverlet.

 **2** **4** **th** **December 1811**

 **Morning**

* * *

"You have crumbs on your Mountains of Ecstasy," said Darcy as we feasted on a decadent (and rather messy) breakfast in bed.

"My what?"

"If you call your nether regions your Garden of Delight I can only assume those are your Mountains of Ecstasy," he said with a gesture towards my poorly covered bosom. The late morning sun was blazing through the windows and he could see me quite clearly but I had overcome my maidenly modesty during the night.

"I think it would be a bit presumptuous to call them mountains. Hills of Ecstasy, perhaps. No, to say hills is still too much an exaggeration. They are Knolls of Ecstasy, and deficient ones at that. "

"Do not denigrate your knolls, I rather like them."

"I rather like you, Mr. Darcy," I replied unthinkingly, surprising myself.

"Fortunate. You may never be able to rid yourself of me now. Last night's proceedings greatly reduced your likelihood of an annulment. You would have to perjure yourself to claim I am impotent. Madness is all that is left to you."

"Madness may claim me yet. With this ball and Lady Whisperton to attend to I do not know how I shall cope."

"I do not think you could plan better for the ball than you already have, and as for Lady Whisperton I am certain that matter will resolve itself."

I turned to him, shocked by his nonchalant attitude. Visiting my Garden had clearly mellowed him. Or possibly addled him.

He further astounded me by saying, "I have been thinking perhaps you should invite your family to stay. It would give them the chance to enjoy the masquerade and me a chance to get to know them properly."

"There is such a thing as going too far in an apology."

"I do not suggest it merely for the sake of apology."

"Apology would be the only sensible reason to suggest such a thing. You cannot understand. Mama and my younger sisters will be unbearable. I love them. And they have many fine qualities—a few fine qualities—but with a ball on the horizon, no. I could not bear it. Not right now. We will have to invite them sometime, of course. But not now."

Certainly not now. Getting Mama to leave after she had worn out her welcome would be difficult, I knew. I wanted to enjoy my marriage before enduring Mama. Darcy and I were only just starting to like each other. I could not risk it now.

"All right. Some other time, then."

"Perhaps instead I might invite my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner to the ball."

"Your mother's brother. The one in trade?" he asked. To his credit he did not allow his tone to sound at all haughty.

"He is nothing like Mama. You will actually like them. They are a credit to me, the only civilized family members I have to offer beyond Jane. I should like to see them. I have called on them since I arrived in town, of course. But they will not return the call. They were not certain you would find it proper."

"Of course you should invite them to the ball. And invite them to dine with us at the earliest date they are available. Snobbish arse I might be but I hope you never thought me so cruel as to bar your relations from visiting?"

"Only for a short while. It quickly became apparent to me one of the most kind and generous gentlemen I had ever known. Yet still oddly a snobbish arse it is very confusing."

"Then I must endeavor to be less confusing," Darcy said, then he kissed me. And for awhile both breakfast and ball were forgotten.

"I am not leaving this bed today. Perhaps not all week," I said sometime later.

"Well, tomorrow is Christmas so I think at the very least we will have to go to church."

The man can make one forget what day it is.

"So tomorrow we must venture out. But we have today."

"Yes, all of today," Darcy agreed. "Plenty of time for me to further display my kindness and generosity."

Before I could demonstrate my delight at his words a knock sounded at the outer door.

"Sir, a problem has arisen," said the voice of Darcy's valet.

Darcy threw on a dressing gown before going to the door and opening it just a crack. Whispering ensued.

My husband closed the door then turned slowly to face me, his expression was like a funeral. I feared the worst.

"Has something happened to Georgie? Your cousins?"

"No, no tragedy has occurred," Darcy said. He attempted to smile. He failed miserably. "Your family is here."


End file.
